


Bad Blood: A Monochrome Anthology

by Kalico



Category: RWBY
Genre: A Series of Short Stories, Anthology, Bad Blood, Bastille - Freeform, Drama, F/F, Friendship, Gen, Platonic Female/Female Relationships, Romance, Short Stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-03-25 02:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3792808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalico/pseuds/Kalico
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Weiss Schnee and Blake Belladonna spend time together, a myriad of stories can take shape. And while friendship and drama abound, don't discount other possibilities. This collection of short stories will be just twelve different examples. Twelve different short stories, each set to one of the twelve tracks of Bastille's debut album, Bad Blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Track 1: Pompeii

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the concept. I love Bastille's debut album, "Bad Blood". I love it so much that it inspired to me create this series of short stories to come.
> 
> There will be twelve short stories in total, each based off a song on this record. Each exists in its own state, completely separate to all the other stories that will be in this series.
> 
> Here's a serious note, though: Some, I am not specifying how many or which, of these short stories will contain romance or romantic tones between these two, Weiss and Blake. But unlike other writers who do these projects, I will not sit here and point out which stories feature the romantic pairing and which feature the platonic pairing. Why? Because. It is intended that the reader digests this entire project. I am not writing these so that the reader can pick and choose, and especially not based on something as tritely discriminatory as shipping wars. If you can't handle not being "warned" at the top, then leave. If you don't like the pairing, then leave. Because I'd rather that you not read these stories if that's how it's going to be. And if you do want to read these stories (which I do want, believe me!) then I'd prefer that you read all twelve.

**Track 1: Pompeii**

_**And if you close your eyes / does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?  
And if you close your eyes / does it almost feel like you've been here before?** _

* * *

 

The book hit the closed door, and fell to the floor with a resounding thud. It had barely missed the wastebasket. Blake looked at the book with disdain before lying back down on her bed. She clasped her hands together on her stomach and stared up at the bottom of Yang's bed. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Weiss looking at her with concern.

What a brutal tale of the destructive potential of Mother Nature, Blake mused. Thousands of people, wiped out and frozen in the blink of an eye, and it just had to be accepted. Why? Why did she have to accept that this was just something that happened, and there was nothing that could be done before, during and after it?

She was being silly, she knew, getting so worked up over a fictional story. But the story represented so much that she could recognize and revile: ignorance, inevitability, oblivion. In a world where she was part of the light, in the unending battle against the darkness, she refused to accept that the flicker could be snuffed out so mercilessly, and at the very hand of the world they were striving to protect.

Weiss walked over and sat at the foot of Blake's bed.

"Not a good read?" she asked.

"It was fine," Blake answered flatly.

"Judging by the force with which you threw that book at the wall, I'm going to say that you're lying."

Blake rolled over, facing away from Weiss and letting the silence answer Weiss's assumption – an assumption which was indeed correct.

"Is there something on your mind, maybe?"

Blake rolled over again, and Weiss saw the doubt in her eyes. She saw the way that Blake's fingers played and pulled at a loose thread on the bedspread.

"Do you have anywhere you need to be?" Blake asked. "Anything you need to do?" Weiss shook her head, and Blake closed her eyes. "Stay there. I want to tell you a story. It's a long one, so if I'll be keeping you from anything tonight, just tell me."

"It's _fine,"_ Weiss said, rolling her eyes. "Which story? Have I heard it before?"

"I don't think you would have. It's a very obscure and old tale. About a fictional, ancient city, called Pompeii."

"I'm listening."

Blake nodded, and summoned a deep breath. "So there's this gulf. The Gulf of Naples. Home to several villages. Among them, the city of Pompeii, home to many thousands of people by the time that this story takes place. But the Gulf of Naples was also home to a volcano, of gargantuan size, called Vesuvius. And Pompeii was right under it."

"I don't like where this is going," interjected Weiss.

Blake glared at her. "You know, it's funny, but when you said, 'I'm listening', I assumed that you were going to be quiet while I told this story."

"Sorry," Weiss said, looking apologetic and sheepish. "Please, do go on."

"Thank you. Now, the actual genesis of this story begins several years before the story itself. It begins with an earthquake, a powerful earthquake, which caused sweeping destruction around the Gulf of Naples, and particularly Pompeii. The city was still in a state of disrepair by the time the events in the story take place. Perhaps, the people should have taken it as an early warning. But in the period after the quake, it's almost like they ignored it. Or maybe they just didn't know any better. In any case, that's up to interpretation. The point is, things were taken quite leisurely in this city. And then, a number of years later, in the space of just a few days, the alarm bells were being rung again. Quake activity suddenly shot through the roof, with a series of tremors rocking the gulf again. Springs dried up around the mountain, as magma gathered and gathered within the mountain. Still, no one was really paying attention."

She watched Weiss's hand shoot up into the air, and she raised her eyebrow. "Question?"

"Thank you. How was it that _no one_ seemed bothered by several earthquakes occurring across three days?"

"The point-of-view character in the story says that earthquakes were not alarming due to them already being rather frequent. An increase in that frequency clearly didn't raise any eyebrows in this city."

"Idiots."

"It's fiction, Weiss," Blake said, a slight smile on her face. "And like I said, people knew less in ancient times. Now, can I continue?"

"Sure."

"Okay." Blake swallowed, and lowered her voice. "It all happened suddenly, in the end, one afternoon. The mountain was blown apart. Ash rose into the air, reaching great heights. The cloud was taken by the wind over Pompeii, plunging the city into darkness. It seemed to last forever, as the city had no choice but to surrender its stone and buildings to the ash and rock, which covered all."

"What was the death toll like then?"

"There were few deaths during this particular point, but I'm not done. As hundreds stumbled in the grey desert of Pompeii, only a few realized that the worst was only now upon them. But it was much too late, and the people knew that there was nothing that could be done. Violent quakes, ever more so than anything they'd ever witnessed before, wracked the bay. The sea was sucked back and thrown relentlessly back at the beach. Then the river of death begun to surge toward the helpless city. 'A fearful black cloud was rent by forked and quivering bursts of flame, and parted to reveal great tongues of fire, like flashes of lightning magnified in size,' one of the passages read. Walls were thrown down, columns were toppled. Some were killed instantly by the intense heat, burning through the city with the fire of a thousand suns. And where the heat was less, the deaths were slower, as they -"

"Stop," Weiss said suddenly. "Blake, please. Enough."

"Sorry. What I mean is, Vesuvius didn't take exactly take prisoners, and no man, woman or child was spared. But that's not all. As they died, their bodies were frozen. The final stages of the eruption preserved the shapes of their bodies forever, where they remained, in the ruined streets for centuries to come." Blake paused to clear her throat. "And that's the story. The macabre tomb known as Pompeii, a city of frozen ghosts and pointless waste."

Weiss nodded thoughtfully. She could see that the story was still resonating within Blake, rather emotionally. So she remained silent, and patiently waited for Blake to speak again.

"I guess..." said Blake finally, "the reason that I told you all this tonight, is because I'm angry at what the story means. I mean, more than anything else, what do you see a lack of in a story like that? Hope," she said, not bothering to let Weiss answer. "It is a story without hope. The people have no hope that they might survive. It's like they just laid down in the streets and let death take them. How is that even something one does? I can't understand it."

"I don't know what to say, Blake. It's fiction, like you said... I guess that it was written to serve as an example, of what _not_ to do, or how _not_ to go about life," offered Weiss.

"But there are no characters that serve as the antithesis to the ignorance and hopelessness of the story. Everyone, even the main character, simply seems to accept it once they realize it's all inevitable. This... giving up, it's exactly what we can't do, ever. Our own version of Vesuvius is roaming and sweeping through the wilds outside the cities of this world, waiting to afford the demise of human- and faunus-kind alike. And if we simply go out and accept their offer without a fight, or even an escape plan at the very least, then we're no better than the people of Pompeii. If we aren't careful, or prepared, that same inevitability will destroy us as well."

"What makes you think something like that might happen to us?"

"How do I know that it won't happen? The future is uncertain. If Team RWBY was to go out on a hunt tomorrow, there's every chance that one of us might die. I don't mean to posit that scary thought, but it's just a hypothetical. I'm trying to say that who knows what's going to happen? What if we find out that Hunters all over the world are being wiped out, and the Grimm threat is only growing stronger? Can we guarantee that the resolve of some won't break in such a situation? We do what we do to make a difference. But what if it's too late, and we can only delay the inevitable?"

What Weiss did next, Blake could not have predicted. She shifted over, closer to Blake, and wrapped her in a tentative hug. It felt a little awkward, but Blake appreciated the sudden, unusual gesture.

"It's going to be okay."

Blake's reply was inquisitive. "You think so?"

"I know so. You have me, I have you, and we have Yang and Ruby as well. And as long as that remains the case, it's going to be okay. We're defenders of the light in this world. We stand in front of the darkness, fighting to beat it back. They didn't have people like that in Pompeii. In this world, when this... Vesuvius of our own comes for us, we'll beat it, because we have the hope that they didn't. We'll win, because I know that I'm not just going to accept Beowolves and Giant Nevermores and Ursii just going through the streets and coming after our friends." She backed out of the hug all of a sudden, leaving Blake a little confused. But she asked, "Are you going to accept it, Blake?"

"What? Of... of course not," said Blake, still taken aback. "I'm not going to accept it.

"Can you say it more convincingly than that?" Weiss asked, raising her eyebrows doubtfully.

"I'm not going to accept it," Blake repeated, this time with much more defiance. Then she went on, "You're right. You're absolutely right. We have everything that they didn't. Where they saw inevitability, and a finality, we see hope. We see the determination to make the world better, and guide the light against the darkness." She paused. "I'm sorry. I thought the story wasn't going to affect as much as it clearly did."

It must have worked, because it drew a small smile from Weiss. "It's okay. But that's good," she said. Then, sensing that the topic had run its course, she started anew, saying, "Now, what do you want to do for the rest of the night?"

Blake shrugged. "I don't know. I'm kind of tired. Might go to bed."

"It's only six."

"So?"

"Do you really want to skip dinner?"

"Oh. Okay, then."

"Come on," Weiss said, standing up and offering her hand. "We can go down and wait for the others."

Blake accepted the offer, and let herself be pulled up. Then her eyes fell on the book of Pompeii, where it still lay splayed by the door. "Hang on," she said. "Let me just put this book away."

"I'll wait for you in the corridor."

"Sure," said Blake. Weiss left the door open for her.

She picked up the book, smoothing out the now-creased pages. Without another thought about it, she closed the book and dropped it into the wastebasket.

 


	2. Track 2: Things We Lost in the Fire

**Track 2: Things We Lost in the Fire**

_**These are the things / the things we lost / the things we lost in the fire, fire, fire** _

* * *

 

The world, as Weiss knew it, was burning down to the ground before her eyes.

In fact, she was stuck in the middle of the pyre. She hurried down another hallway, her eyes scanning for some form of impromptu exit. She kept her rapier ready to strike.

A White Fang grunt charged at her, a little clumsily, and she didn't hesitate to thrust the blade and twist.

She didn't look back at her would-be attacker, pulling the sword free of clinging flesh and continuing on her way.

She had felt the storm coming before the dark clouds had even formed. But when it eventually rolled above Schnee Manor, she had found herself almost completely powerless to stop it.

All the signs had been there. If only her parents had listened to her warnings. Her parents, who had not survived the attack. When the fire started, their bodies were among the first things she found. Adorning the foot of a staircase, surrounded and stained by telling splotches of crimson.

There was nothing for her to do, other than to keep moving. Aside from the spreading fire, if the invaders had no qualms killing her parents, then that only made it more likely that she was also marked for death.

So clad only in the trackpants and sweater she'd had no time to change out of, she'd stumbled back into the corridors, to see the invaders shooting down a much smaller number of the family's personal guard.

She wasn't as eager to fight as she was before the fire, but she knew that she would not only have to catch up to the retreating group, but they would likely force themselves between her and an emergency exit.

Sword aloft, she crept after them, making sure to keep some distance. If they were to all attack her at once, with prepared intent and formations, she with her amateur, rusty swordplay skill would likely be overwhelmed. She had to play it carefully, and wait for possible stragglers. She didn't know how much of their security force remained, but she had to assume that she was the only one left. Circumstances prior to the attack had already spread the force thin, between personal security and protection of Schnee Company headquarters.

As she kept moving, she heard a slow clip-clopping of boots, completely new and different to the ones she was chasing. She immediately spun around, walking backwards and keeping her eyes trained on the scene she was leaving in her wake. The corridor in question was home to several closets and rooms, and anyone could have hid in them. She wasn't sure if that was a particularly wise move to make, given the circumstances. But there was definitely someone tailing her. Someone foolhardy enough to try their chances at attacking her in a burgeoning inferno.

She raised her guard, shifting her weight onto her back foot. Her father had always said that a good defense made for a good offense, after all.

There was a scuffle, and a scrape. She whipped her head to the side, just as a flash of metal flew past her cheek and embedded itself in the wall behind her. It took a split second for her eyes to widen in shock. Death, narrowly avoided, very much by a hair. The split second was also enough time for her balance to shift, and momentum to begin driving her feet forward, towards where the knife had flown from, where a masked soldier stood, stoic, barely visible in the flickering orange light. Not a typical grunt at all.

The distance between the two was only small, but there seemed to be one of those moments that Weiss had only ever read about, where time itself seemed to slow down. As she prepared to thrust the sword into a gap in the armored torso, there was a glint, and a gun appeared at the soldier's side. Weiss saw it as it was drawn, and instead of stabbing, slashed at the hand holding it. It made a pinging sound as it bounced off the soldier's gauntlet, but was nevertheless successful in affecting the accuracy of the shot that rang out.

Weiss gasped, but used the soldier's now-awkward stance to knock them back. She drove the sword through their chest without giving them another chance to almost kill her.

She turned on her right foot to go on her way, but when she put weight on her left foot, her eyes widened. Biting down, hard, on her tongue, was all she could do to keep from screaming in pain.

She staggered back against the wall and looked down. She wished immediately that she hadn't. It was a mess. Lots of a certain red liquid coating her foot. She let out a long, low groan. With the skirmish having interrupted her chase – or escape, whichever way she wanted to look at it – the fire had had time to gain on her progress. A mangled foot would only complicate things further.

Fresh shouts sounded from the way she was supposed to go. She hissed with frustration. They had heard her fight, and were coming back to see if their comrade was okay. And when they saw her, they would finish the job that the soldier had started.

The sounds of clanging and slicing cut into the shouts, which turned to pained cries. She looked up as someone dashed towards her. They were indeed masked, with long, black hair flying wildly about their head as they approached.

The sword felt heavier than ever as she hefted it with her left hand, shifting backwards with support of the right.

The newcomer was upon her. She swung the sword clumsily, only for it to be kicked out of her hand with ease. It skittered uselessly before coming to lay with the corpse of the soldier it had slain, only a matter of minutes before.

"If you're going to kill me, then just do it," Weiss growled, trying to sound more confident than she was. She truly feared death, yet there it was, wearing the mask of the White Fang. It had claimed the rest of her family, and it seemed to have come calling for her as well.

The soldier's head cocked to the side.

"Relax," a feminine voice said, muffled slightly by the mask.

Weiss frowned, just as everything went dark.

* * *

 

Raiding parties didn't tend to travel by car, as a matter of practicality. If the target was local, then they travelled on-foot. If the target was a considerable distance away, there would always be an airship to appropriate for insertion. But even in that case, they would still have to travel by foot; there was only so close an airship could get before they were no longer inconspicuous.

When they travelled on-foot, they almost always did it in pairs. But even though this attack was to be a special occasion, that didn't change.

As usual, Blake was paired with Adam, the leader of the raid to come.

"Remember, Blake," he said, en route to the domineering mansion. "Kill everyone on sight. We don't want a repeat of last time."

Blake nodded. That was just the sort of person Adam was. And she knew better than to argue with him, especially before what was to be, arguably, the most important night of her twenty-year-old life.

"Don't worry," she replied. "I'll be fine."

He gave her a curt nod. But she frowned. Even coming out of her own mouth, it wasn't enough to convince herself.

Adam held a finger up to his ear, listening to the buzzing voice that suddenly came through. He replied, "Copy," and took his finger away.

"Did the scouts deal with the watchmen?"

Adam nodded again. "Get ready. Here we go."

The pair broke into a sprint, as they darted through the back street towards the mansion. They could already hear shouts, and gunfire. The flash of muzzles seemed to light up the back garden, which they could see from their vantage point. For a brief moment, all fell silent. A large section of the colossal, stone fence before them fell away.

"Copy. Breach," Adam said, his earpiece having gone off again. As if on cue, a loud, percussive bang sounded just as the wall of the mansion blew apart, in three different places.

"Blake, let's move," he instructed.

"I-I'll catch up," she said. He gave her a brief, wary look, but the call of the prize before him quickly drew him away. He turned away and started on a beeline for the breach.

"Stay alive," he called out behind him. Blake stayed rooted in place, long enough to see him draw his sword and engage with two guards.

She went down to the garden and drew her own weapon, a sword-and-pistol combination. No one came at her; her White Fang compatriots had had no trouble in pushing the security back inside the mansion.

There were only a few bodies out in the courtyard, and they were all clad in black suits. She didn't know why, but an uneasy feeling started to build in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps because she was getting a very early impression that this wasn't going to be a raid; it was going to be a massacre. The combined White Fang parties outnumbered the mansion's security force by at least two-to-one.

She wondered if the simultaneous attack on Schnee Company headquarters was turning out the same way.

She slowly stepped through one of the breaches. Her allies had worked quickly. Breaching and beating back security was only half the mission, but it had been swiftly done, in the space of only ten minutes or so.

The sounds of fighting had grown more and more distant, but she didn't let her guard down, strafing down blood-stained corridors and shattered marble debris.

A pungent, acrid smell forced its way into her nose. Smoke. She could smell smoke. She stopped, caught in a moment of surprise, and confusion. In this situation, that could only mean one thing.

Were we supposed to be burning the building to the ground?

It wasn't part of the plan, as far as she was concerned. Did it simply just come with the territory of eliminating this family? Perhaps. But admittedly, it served to hit home a feeling that had been gnawing in her gut for the past several weeks.

The heads of the family were dead. Their bodies lay in at the foot of a staircase somewhere in the western wing. That much she knew from the chatter through her earpiece. She frowned when she heard that the daughter, the heiress, was still unaccounted for. She scowled when she heard a couple of grunts joke about butchering housekeepers.

No one spoke to her. It was how she preferred to operate, and she'd proven herself enough times to be validated by her fellows as such. Killing people, operating as a silent blade in the night, a one-woman scouting party with her skills and weaponry and expertise. Did she enjoy it? Not at all. She hated taking lives. But she did it, because to deviate from the norm reeked of dissent, and the always-unwelcome possibility of being fingered as a rebel.

There was an update about the attack on the company, which Blake swallowed with interest. But when another crack was made at the expense of another slain butler, she decided that she'd had enough. She yanked the earpiece out and crushed it beneath the heel of her boot. She was going to do things a little differently.

But where to go? The heiress was still kicking, it seemed. And maybe just feeling a little sentimental.

Using her memory of the building's floor plan, she started moving in the direction of the western wing.

* * *

 

The sharp swaying and labored breathing awoke Weiss with a jolt. Her foot ached and throbbed, but no longer did it feel like it was on fire. A spot on her head throbbed agonizingly, but it felt strange to try and move her hand towards it. Gravity seemed to be working against her.

She slowly blinked her eyes open, and immediately felt confusion. She was being carried by someone, in a fireman's carry. The one that hoisted her over someone's shoulder, in a way that left her looking at the carrier's posterior; it may not have been the best time to notice, but she observed that her rescuer – or kidnapper – was providing her with a rather nice view.

They were walking over grass, and she could hear running water, which told her that they were probably close to a stream.

"That's far enough," her carrier muttered to themselves. It was the same voice that had told her to relax back at home. There was the same black, wavy hair as well.

Weiss felt herself being gently laid down on the grass. When her kidnapper – or rescuer – sat back, they stared at each other for a silent moment.

"You're awake," a young woman's voice said, still through the mask.

"Only just now," Weiss replied.

"You didn't say anything."

Weiss shrugged. "Where are we?" she asked, taking an opportunity to look around. They were indeed near a stream, but not in an area that she recognized.

"I like to come here sometimes," the dark-haired girl said, pulling the blood-and-bone mask from her face. Weiss stared at her again, examining her. Golden, somewhat angular eyes, not unlike a cat's, looked over the mask as she turned it over in her hands. They were tired eyes, though, and they roamed the mask with a forlorn expression.

Eventually she sighed and dropped the mask down by her feet. Again, she locked eyes with Weiss, her lips pursed.

"What's going on?" Weiss asked. The girl hunched forward, and retrieved a flask from her belt. She tossed it to Weiss.

"I rescued you." Pointing at the flask, she said, "Water. Drink. How's your foot?"

"Oh," Weiss said, looking done at her foot. She saw bandages wrapped tightly around it. "It feels... okay."

"Good. It was through-and-through. Didn't do too much damage, from what I saw. I treated it with a special remedy of mine, so... with any luck you'll be able to walk in the morning."

Weiss opened the flask, but frowned. "But... why? Aren't you one of them?"

"If I was still with them, you'd be in the ground with the rest of your palace."

Right. Her family, her home, gone. She remembered now. She sipped from the flask, tasting metallic, lukewarm water. She noticed the other girl stand up and walk over to her.

"That wasn't fair," she said, sitting down.

Weiss kept silent. She pulled absentmindedly at the grass around her. The girl tentatively placed a hand on Weiss's shoulder.

"If it means anything, I'm sor-"

Weiss jerked the hand away, and drew her legs up beneath her chin. She hugged them tight. "It doesn't," she said. "And I don't believe you for a second anyway. I knew my parents. I'm old enough to know that the things they've done haven't always been popular, especially with your people."

"You don't believe that I can set aside my personal feelings to recognize when someone is grieving?"

"No! I don't. We would've given you people what you wanted. Anything. You didn't have to do this."

"I-"

"Why am I even talking to you?!" Weiss exclaimed, incredulous. "I don't even know your name! You probably don't even know my name! I was just a target to you people, after all. What do you think you're even doing right now, talking to me like this?"

The girl glanced around their hiding spot. "I'm Blake," she quietly said, after a tense silence. "And I do know your name, Weiss Schnee."

"Blake..." Weiss mumbled, feeling very deflated all of a sudden. "I don't know what's happening. I'm confused, and tired, and sore, and sad. And I'm not interested in talking right now. So if it's all the same to you, I just want to get some sleep."

"... Of course."

"I'm guessing that you don't have a secret hideout somewhere in a five-star hotel."

"Sorry. This was a bit of a spur-of-the-moment thing."

"I suppose we'll have to take watches then." Weiss looked up at Blake, her expression unreadable. "And I suppose I have no choice but to trust you."

"You're willing to take that chance?"

"Like I said, I'm tired. If you kill me in my sleep, then that's on you. But I honestly don't know how much I care right now, so you might not have a better chance than tonight," said Weiss, glaring at Blake. She then proceeded to make herself comfortable, as much as she could with no bedding other than the grass beneath her.

There was a part of her that wondered why she wasn't crying.

* * *

 

Blake kicked at a piece of bark, sending it into the stream. She was annoyed at herself. Her senses felt somehow heightened, and it was reflecting in how she'd dealt with Weiss.

She looked over at her, sleeping and curled up in a ball, dressed in cotton pants and a thin sweater that couldn't have kept out the slightest chill.

She hoped that she hadn't made some horrible mistake. No, she assured herself, shaking her head. Not by saving Weiss, at any rate. But surely Adam knew that something was wrong. She wondered if being presumed as caught in the blaze would be too much to ask for.

In any case, she and Weiss were alone together now. It didn't necessarily matter if the bait hadn't been taken. For the time being they just needed to come up with a plan, of some sort. Somewhere to hide away. It wouldn't be a good idea to part ways so soon, and she assumed Weiss would also see the same way.

Or not.

"I don't understand why we can't just stay somewhere in the city. I have money," said Weiss irritably. She took a swig from Blake's flask and handed it back.

Blake sighed. "For the last time, two reasons. First: we have no clue what's happened to your company."

"Well, we know that it got attacked as well."

"Yes, but to what extent? I didn't know that they were going to... well, you know. So it's not like we know if the company's going to be any better. We need to find a news source. Get into the city. And that's the second reason this won't be easy. You can't travel anywhere. You're far too well known and distinguishable to blend in with a crowd. Say we check into a hotel. The concierge, having seen the news about your home, your family, and your company maybe an hour earlier, sees you, with your appearance, and calls the authorities, who come knocking with all sorts of questions. If Weiss Schnee gets clocked in the city, then who knows how long before that information gets to the White Fang. Then, they know you're not dead, and they start asking questions about me, as well."

Weiss scowled, but looked away. She could see Blake's point.

"What are you doing?" she asked, flinching a little as Blake pulled out a combat knife.

"We'll need to cut your hair," Blake said. "It will still be recognizable, because we can't do anything about the color with what we have, but it'll be easier to hide away if it's short."

Weiss looked reluctant to part with her locks, but at the same time, she had to acknowledge that Blake was making solid arguments. It was difficult to argue, even though she desperately wanted to. Everything about the situation was tricky.

She bowed her head though, and Blake walked over. She sat behind Weiss, and made short work of her hair, gathering it up and hacking the length off with a few rough cuts.

"Owwww," Weiss droned, wincing. When Blake was done, she instinctively felt the back of her head, felt the extreme disparity.

"Do you want me to even it out?" drawled Blake.

"If you give me the knife, I can do it myself," Weiss tried.

"I don't think so." Was that a tiny smile Weiss could hear? "It won't be much longer."

Some more sharp tugs, and it was done. It hardly felt like a salon job, but whatever, Weiss thought.

She turned around, as Blake ripped off a strip of her sleeve.

"Here," she said, handing her the black fabric. "I know it's probably not what you're used to."

Weiss tied the strip around her head like a bandanna. "It'll do."

"I'll buy you a hat in the city if we don't get accosted by thugs."

* * *

 

They made sure that no one saw them walking back out onto the streets. They walked for a long time, taking breaks here and there when Weiss would feel a twinge in her otherwise okay foot. As they walked, they talked. They went over their "plan." They laid it out before them as far as they could postulate it, which wasn't at all.

It wasn't any easier for Weiss, to talk in such a way in front of someone she'd only just met. She couldn't tell how Blake felt about it. She seemed more settled than the other night, but somehow that made her much harder to read. It was like the morning had come to wash away the adrenaline and immerse her jangled nerves in the cool water of the stream. That was how Weiss saw it, in any case.

Their plan wasn't founded on anything other than a need to rebuild, and a need to somehow manage it together, for the time being. Easier said than done, Weiss thought. But Blake insisted.

"The second I saw you in that mansion, and made my mind up to rescue you," she explained, "I knew that we were going to be in this together, whether we would like it or not."

"This is just all levels of weird. This whole thing," Weiss said, rolling her shoulders around like it would alleviate some of the stress. "I didn't even know you until last night, and now we're talking about rooming together. Like we're in boarding school."

"Things have changed. Much more than either of us could have ever anticipated, but that's how it is. Yesterday, you were roaming the halls of your palace, and I was using a picture of your father for target practice." Blake glanced at her. "Sorry. But you see what I mean, don't you? This is the way that things have worked out, so we have to live with that now and just keep moving forward."

Weiss sighed, the comment about her father catching on her mind. "I don't know."

"You don't know what?"

"I... don't know," Weiss said, throwing her hands up. "None of this is processing. I think my brain is officially broken. Like this whole thing has given it whiplash."

"Well, I'm sorry that I'm taking us into the city because I thought it would help you adjust better. You know, I have no problem camping with no provisions other than a stream, but I just figured that you didn't want to have to process all this in the cold."

"Why would you care how I feel?" said Weiss, taking a tone that she regretted immediately.

"Like I've said, countless times now!" Blake snapped. "We're in this together, whether we like it or not! And personally, I just want to make this as easy and painless as possible! So if keeping you comfortable is the way to do it, then fine! I'll do it! Because I don't want to wake up with a knife in my back any more than you do!"

They had stopped walking. Weiss stared at the ground with her arms folded. She could feel Blake staring at her with those blazing golden eyes, breathing just a little heavier.

"You're afraid of me," Weiss said, masking the realization by keeping her voice as cool as possible.

"Wary. I don't know what you're capable of," Blake said, lowering her voice. "You killed a soldier with a sword that didn't look sharp enough to slice bread. The brief on you was minimal. Everyone wanted a piece of your father so much that they seemed to treat you and your mother like mere inconveniences. At no point was it brought up that you had any combat skills to speak of. And since you woke up by the stream last night, I've been working under the assumption that you could just be waiting for me to let my guard down, so that you could strike. And take your vengeance. After all, I was one of them. Don't tell me I'm being paranoid, either, because it's completely logical. Last night, the White Fang literally put you to the blowtorch. Why wouldn't you want to kill me?"

The question went unanswered, because Weiss had stopped listening. She felt her knees get weak beneath her, so she dropped to the ground, not caring if Blake told her she was sticking out too much by sitting on the sidewalk. She made herself small again, drawing her knees up.

"Weiss, what are you doing? Get up, would you? We need to keep moving."

"Stop it."

"Damn it, woman, I'm trying to help you," Blake said, scowling.

"Just stop it, already," Weiss mumbled. She felt defeated all of a sudden. Beaten and tired. "You should have just left me for dead. If the company's gone, then what more can I do here?"

"Which is why the first thing we planned on doing was finding a reliable news source so that we can find out exactly what we can work with," Blake said, trying to reason and rationalize Weiss to the situation that lay before them. She even sounded desperate.

Weiss shook her head. "I don't even want to find out anymore."

"Well, what do you want to do then?"

Weiss shrugged. "I don't know." Then she stared at Blake, hard. "To get away from you."

Blake stared back for a moment, but looked away. Weiss continued to stare, noticing what looked like a war of emotions playing itself out on Blake's face. Finally, Blake sighed heavily, and she looked back at Weiss with an expression that seemed rather close to genuine sympathy.

"Weiss, there's something you need to know," Blake said "I... haven't been entirely forthcoming since last night."

She paused, but Weiss waited for her to continue. There was no need for her to interject.

"Weiss, I know what happened to your family's company. Weiss... the White Fang gutted the headquarters. The buildings are empty shells now. There's no one left. I'm sorry."

She hadn't wanted to antagonize Weiss any further, but she had needed to know. They couldn't have afforded to have Weiss breaking down in the city. But Blake thought that maybe she could take care of it before they made it in. _Then why does it feel like I just made things so much worse?_

Weiss stared at her with wide eyes, then threw her head back to look up at the sky.

"Well, that's it then."

"Weiss?"

Weiss buried her face into her thighs and let out a muffled scream.

"It's all gone," she gasped. "Everything's gone..." She looked up at Blake briefly, who saw glistening tears rolling down her cheeks. "How can it just be gone?"

Blake dropped down to her level. Weiss couldn't read the look on her face again, but there was a frown involved. "Weiss..." Blake began. She watched as Weiss rocked back and forth a little.

"I have _nothing_ ... I have _nobody."_

"Weiss, listen to me-"

Weiss gave her a bloodshot, poisonous glance. "I've done nothing but listen to you since we met."

"And I suggest you keep listening. Get up," she ordered firmly. Weiss shook her head. "Get up," she repeated.

"Fuck you."

"Damn it, woman-" hissed Blake, under her breath. If assertiveness in speech wasn't going to work, then assertiveness in physicality had to be utilized. She grabbed Weiss by the arm and forcefully pulled her up. Weiss shook her off, but remained upright.

"What's even the point now, huh?! What's left for me? Nothing! They won! My family lost! Only this time, it's _permanent!_ I hope they're happy with themselves."

"Weiss, this isn't the time or place."

"Oh, sure. We can talk about this tomorrow. We could talk about this next month. Hey, how about we just make an appointment to talk about it on the fifth of March, next year?"

"Weiss-"

"You know what, just call me whenever. I'll be available, that I can guarantee."

Blake grabbed her by the shoulders. "Weiss. Stop pitying yourself for one second and get it through your thick head; _you're alive._ Your family and your company may be no more, but you have a chance to do something positive in this world." Weiss was doing her best to avoid eye contact, but Blake saw her bottom lip pout slightly. She narrowed her eyes at the stubbornness of this girl, and, without thinking any further, threw her arms around her.

It was an awkward attempt at a hug, seeing that Weiss hadn't expected it, and Blake wasn't by nature a "touchy-feely" type of person. It felt to Blake like she had wrapped her arms around a tree trunk, unmoving and oddly-shaped, with various limbs at not the correct angles.

She let go after a couple of seconds, stepping away from a stunned Weiss, who simply looked at her like she'd grown another head.

"What... was that for?" she asked, just loud enough for Blake to hear.

Blake turned away. She must have made some sort of mistake. She felt embarrassment, a rare emotion for her to experience. "I thought that you might appreciate it... with everything you've been through," she said delicately. It seemed much easier to say not looking at Weiss.

She heard Weiss clear her throat. "Well... thank you."

Blake nodded, still not wanting to face Weiss. "You're welcome. Can we go now?" She started tapping her foot, like this ordeal was making her impatient.

"Let's go."

Blake started walking again, this time at a more brisk pace. She'd only walked about another ten steps or so, when Weiss called out, "Wait!"

She stopped in her tracks as a hand grabbed her arm. She spun around, and there was Weiss.

"What is it?"

Weiss smiled small at her. "I don't believe I ever thanked you for saving me."

 


	3. Track 3: Bad Blood

**Track 3: Bad Blood**

_**All this bad blood here / won't you let it dry?  
** _ _**It's been cold for years / won't you let it lie?** _

* * *

 

The black bow sat slightly too large upon her nine-year-old head, and it drooped a little. But, her parents agreed, it hid the velvety, feline ears quite flawlessly.

Blake frowned at herself in the mirror, not so much dissatisfied at her appearance as she was by how uncomfortable the bow made those ears feel. "It hurts," she said, a hand hovering up over the bow, as if waiting for blessed permission to alleviate the nuisance.

Her father, a burly and bearded, but kind-eyed man, walked over, and gently clamped a large, reassuring hand on Blake's shoulder. Her arm fell to her side, as she turned around to face her father.

"Papa," she said, "why do I have to do this?"

"Come now, little one," he said with a smile, that was strained, but still carried genuine affection. "You know that this is the way it must be."

Blake huffed, and crossed her arms. "But I don't _want_ to leave home! I don't _want_ to live with the Schnees!"

"Blake, please," her mother said, swooping down to her knees, so as to be on the same level as her daughter. The creases in her forehead only indicated her worry. "You must understand how important this is. If Mr Schnee likes you, and takes you on, you won't have to live poor anymore. If this second trial goes well, then you might have a chance to get out of _this place_. You're still so young, you could be groomed to be anything you want to be."

"But … I don't want to leave you," Blake said, less indignant now. She understood a little, but still was bewildered and scared. Her mother smiled sadly.

"I know, sweetheart."

Blake's eyes started to well with unshed tears. "Why can't you come with me? Why do I have to be alone?"

"Oh, darling, don't you know that we would come with you? But if only we could." The attempt at reassurance only upset Blake more, so her mother forced some enthusiasm into her voice. "But you won't be entirely alone! Mr Schnee has a daughter as well, named Weiss. And she's the same age as you!"

Blake immediately calmed down, her expression changing from an upset one to a curious one. "Have you met her?"

Her father nodded. "She's a very polite, very well-spoken young lady. Very dignified. But, that's what we must expect, from the heir to the Schnee Company empire."

"I'm sure the two of you will get along," her mother added. "You two could be very good friends."

"Well … that's okay, then."

Her mother nodded, and smiled with relief. "So, what do you say I make you something to eat before we go?" At her daughter's nod, she stood and straightened up. She gave her husband a pointed look before exiting the room.

"Come here, little one," the patriarch instructed, directing Blake to a pair of worn armchairs, one of which creaked and groaned in protest as her father sank his frame into it. Blake's chair, much like the bow, looked a little too big for her skinny frame.

"Are you scared, Blake?" he asked. She nodded. "That's okay," he said. "But do you understand why this has to happen? Everything that we've just told you?"

Blake frowned. "Not really. But it sounded important."

"That's okay too. Someday, you will understand, that this is the right way for you to go. Your mother have never had such a big opportunity. Like she said, this is your chance to write your own fate. And nothing would make us happier than to see you living a good, happy life, filled with opportunities.

He watched as his daughter's head rocked back, and she kicked her legs up and down, as sometimes she tended to do while in deep thought. Then she nodded.

"Okay then."

He broke out into a relieved smile, and opened his arms. "Come here."

She clambered out of the chair, and into the hug. "I love you, Papa."

"I love you too, little one."

* * *

 

The suit, handed down from when her father was a youth, had never felt more out of place than it did in Schnee Manor. She blanched under the disapproving and curious glances that the other service-people threw at the way of her and her family, as they sat, waiting, in the "reception room" of the oppressive and threatening mansion. There was nobody else in the room, but they still didn't feel like it was appropriate to talk.

After waiting, very patiently and quietly, for the better part of half an hour, an older gentleman wearing a crisp, black tuxedo and bowtie seemed to glideinto the room – not walk, _glide –,_ holding a clipboard. He looked very much like an artist's depiction of an older-era butler with the thinning grey hair and straight-backed posture. He even wore white gloves.

"Miss … Belladonna?" he asked, not looking up.

Blake thrust her hand up into the air, to draw his eye. "Hello," she greeted.

He glanced at her. "Ah, yes," he said, pushing his wire-frame spectacles further up the bridge of his nose. "Mr Schnee is ready to see you now. If you would like to follow me."

Blake nodded, and jumped up. Her mother took hold of her hand.

"Good luck," she said.

"Thank you, Mama." Her mother patted her hand, and let her go to join the butler-looking man.

It seemed like a long walk to Blake. Perhaps it was. The butler didn't say anything to her as she trailed after him, walking floors of polished marble, and up staircases that seemed to reach into the great heights of the ceiling. Somehow, the surfaces were polished and white enough to seem delicate or fragile, but also solid enough to seem _enduring._ It struck Blake as odd, but she couldn't quite place her finger on it – only because they were moving so fast, not because there was any shortage of opulence in the house.

It was overwhelming for the young Blake, sheer pressure holding her tongue, and keeping her from saying anything to him as well.

They turned another corner, and walked towards a double door at the end of the corridor. The doors swung open, and a little girl with white, flowing hair, about Blake's own age stormed out with an angry pout on her face. Butler strode up to her, but the girl breezed past him. She barely acknowledged Blake as she passed her.

Blake gave Butler a puzzled look as he walked back over to her.

"Miss Schnee," he explained. "Don't let her know I said this about her, but she has quite the fiery temper sometimes."

Blake nodded, and they walked up to the double door.

Butler rapped twice, and they waited. A voice from within said, "Enter."

The Schnee patriarch's most striking feature, to Blake, was how young he looked. His hair, vibrant and white, was cut short, but full. Brilliant blue eyes dazzled when they locked with her own. They narrowed, focusing in on her.

"You are Blake Belladonna."

Blake nodded. "U-uh, yes."

Mr Schnee rose from behind his desk, and walked slowly toward her, not taking his eyes away. He stopped, a few feet away, and nodded.

"You'll do," he said. He went back to his desk, and resumed his work.

Blake stood, frozen. _What just happened?_

Butler came up behind her and said quietly, "Come with me."

She looked at him with ill-disguised confusion, but did as she was told. Butler led her back down the same grand path. For the first time, she spoke to him.

"What … what happened in there?" she asked.

"Mr Schnee approved of you," Butler explained. "And now, only some minor formalities remain before you join us here in this house."

"Minor … formalities?"

"All matters I will discuss with your parents," he said, with a dismissive wave. "In the meantime, you need not worry. We will send someone to collect your belongings and bring them here, but you can stay here tonight and begin your training first thing in the morning."

Her parents took the news with less excitement than Blake had anticipated. They smiled, and hugged her with the same strength that she expected from them. But their eyes spoke of a sadness that she hadn't seen before.

The final words her father said to her were, "Be brave, child. Keep your bow about you, and you will have nothing to fear." Her mother said that she loved her, and then they were gone.

* * *

 

"You!"

Startled, Blake jumped. The plate she had been holding shattered on the polished floor. She bit her tongue, and then spun to see who had yelled at her. Her face flushed red when she saw the young Miss Schnee, her brow furrowed and hands balled at her sides. She hoped that the young mistress hadn't noticed the slightest twitch of her bow.

"Ah-uh-um, M-Miss Schnee," she stammered. "I-I-I didn't see you t-there-"

Miss Schnee stomped over to her. "You're new, aren't you?! What's your name?"

"Blake, m-ma'am," she said, positively terrified. Weiss was smaller than her in size, significantly so, but her attitude was beyond intimidating. Blake almost felt as if she was wilting under a blowtorch.

Miss Schnee looked her up and down, very obviously, and thrust a finger toward her chest. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

"Y-yes, ma'am." As Miss Schnee turned to leave, she knelt down to pick up the larger fragments of the plate.

"I said not to move!" Miss Schnee said.

"B-but ma'am, the p-plate … I really sh-should …"

"Don't move!"

"As you wish," mumbled Blake, wondering if three weeks was too soon to ask Master Schnee for an end to her service.

A few minutes later, Miss Schnee came back, a wide smile that spoke of a wish granted.

"Guess what?" the young mistress asked.

"What is it, m-ma'am?" Blake quavered, fearing anything and everything.

"You're going to be mine now! Father said I can have you as my personal assistant!" Miss Schnee said happily.

"I-I'm sorry, ma'am?"

Miss Schnee grabbed her by the wrist, and dragged her out of the room. "Come with me!"

"But, Miss, the plate!"

Miss Schnee snorted. "Someone else will get that. _We_ are going to have some fun!"

"M-miss?"

"And call me Weiss, would you?"

* * *

 

As the personal assistant of one so atop the rungs of society, or one who would inevitably become such, Blake's duty was two-fold, yet still theoretically simple: to be a close friend and to cater for every need.

Or so she thought.

As the months passed, the notion of "duty" slowly fell away, as did the idea that to be the young mistress's friend was to be some sort of task. Also gone was the idea of catering for Miss Schnee's every need, as Blake found out; the heiress was quite capable for her young age.

It took longer than Weiss would have liked for Blake to stop referring to her in person as "Ma'am" or "Miss Schnee". But this one habit of her servitude eventually disappeared from her mind, as she used the name "Weiss" as casually as almost any other word around her.

There were many perks to being close to the crown princess, as Blake found out. She was never one to exploit them, but it let her breath easier when Weiss assured her that she would "take care of it." When Blake had to inform Butler of her new position, Weiss accompanied to vouch for her. Her presence ensured the process went along a lot smoother than Blake suspected it would otherwise have played out.

Another benefit that came with her direct and dedicated service to Weiss was that she was allowed to leave her original duties around the mansion. It gave them more time to spend with each other, which both girls appreciated.

They didn't go to school together, as Weiss was sent to the finest school in the city, while Blake was educated at the mansion by a tutor. Weiss wanted Blake to join her, but it was one wish regarding her friend that her father wasn't as willing to accommodate. When Weiss was pulled out of middle school for a string of delinquent behaviors, and made to join Blake's homeschooling program, there was a part of Blake that wondered just how coincidental her exit from the system was. In any case, they were both happy to share the experience with each other.

It seemed cliché, but their friendship ended up following the dynamic of the typical girl's friendship: the schoolyard sharing of secrets and personal talk was quickly commonplace between them. Sneaking out to visit the other's room in the middle of the night occurred multiple times throughout each week.

If the word "close" were used to describe their friendship, it would barely be considered apt. "Close" didn't begin to describe the bond that formed between them over the eight years that they spent together in Schnee Manor.

When Blake came out as pansexual, Weiss was the first person she spoke to. And when she had to tell Weiss's mother, they did it together. Not as a couple, Weiss told Mrs Schnee, just as friends.

But, no matter what they felt towards each other, there was still one secret that Blake couldn't share with anybody, most of all her best friend. It was a secret that hung heavily over her head, or, perhaps more appropriately, atop her head.

She always made sure to wear her bow. _Always_. It was simply part of her life. She didn't have to think about it too much in the beginning, just doing what her father instructed with his parting words. But after the girls turned sixteen, there was a bit of a rude reminder. Nothing serious, but an offhand comment made by Weiss, while they were strolling around the city streets. They observed a small group of faunus, chatting happily and excitedly at a bus stop as they walked past.

"What do you think they're talking about?" asked Weiss.

Blake sipped from her mocha latte before answering. "Mm? Who?"

"Them," Weiss muttered, cocking her head at the group. "Those animals there."

Blake's eyes widened, but she mumbled her way through a non-committal response, and the issue was quickly put to bed by yet another clothing store. The rest of the day, though, and even the next few days afterward, Blake couldn't help but feel a little apprehensive around her friend. Fortunately for her, the time they spent together after this episode went without any similar incident.

That is, until a night in October. At this point in their lives, both young women preferred to be known as such, rather than the girls they once were.

* * *

 

A typical rainy, fall evening. High on Blake's agenda was studying, sharpening her knowledge of matters that would less than likely not serve her at all upon her exit from the system. The programs her tutors were laying out for her and Weiss had been becoming more and more rigorous in recent months. Blake felt the need to utilize the full capacity of her mental faculties in order to maintain a reasonably consistent level of performance. Weiss, on the other hand, seemed to be naturally gifted, with a high aptitude for succeeding in academia, almost effortlessly.

Nevertheless, it surprised Blake that, rather than studying herself, Weiss was stomping into her room with a red face and an obviously blown temper.

"I'm so _furious,"_ she ground out.

"I can tell," said Blake from her desk chair. "Mind telling me why you're here so late, Weiss?"

Weiss flopped down onto Blake's bed, rumpling the neat, tucked sheets that were taken care of with such perfection each morning. Blake left her work and sat by Weiss. Up close, she could see the telltale signs, the splotchy cheeks and red-tinged eyes.

"Weiss, what's wrong?" she asked, with much more concern.

"It's all _their_ fault."

Blake frowned. "Who?"

Weiss grabbed a pillow and rolled over onto her stomach. "Those _animals,_ " she spat into the pillow. She looked up at Blake. "You know those radicals? The 'White Fang'? Attacked a dock, holding a lot of our cargo. The worst attack yet, Father says."

Blake drew back, feeling the old apprehension return. "He … spoke to you about it?"

"Of course he did … actually, he did more than just _speak_ to me about it. Made me sit there in his office while he drank and drank and ranted and raved about 'those fucking animals.'" She shook her head. "I hate them so much."

"The … White Fang?"

"I hate them all … why did they have to come here? They could have just stayed where they were, in the southeast. Everyone was happier back then, according to Father. They just kept to themselves, and things were fine. And now they're doing all this. What will it achieve? Soon there'll be killings, just you wait."

Blake could only sit, stunned, and absorb the rest of what was a brutalization of an entire race, coming from the mouth of her best friend. She felt herself clam up and travel further and further away with every expletive, and every pejorative phrase. The only saving grace was that what sounded like the worst parts of the rant were muffled by the pillow under Weiss's head.

She went without much sleep that night, eventually only falling asleep long after midnight, long after Weiss had excused herself and left. The pillow that Weiss had screamed into lay on the ground, beyond the foot of her bed. She couldn't bring herself to touch it, so she'd kicked it off once she was under the covers, as if the barrier of her sheets and blankets would protect her from Weiss's … views.

The morning afterward, she requested a private audience with Mr Schnee. It was their first one-on-one meeting since she'd begun her service, eight years previous. She sat up nice and rigid, noticing that Mr Schnee had travelled a long way from his once-youthful appearance. In the space of eight years, it was as if he had aged another eighteen. Wrinkles and frown lines seemed to be long-set, and unshaven stubble spoke of someone who was not taking care of themselves like they once used to.

"I would like to be released from my service to the house. And to Miss Schnee," she said. "I would like to move into a place of my own. As immediately as possible."

It was painful to say, but after very recent events, she knew that it was necessary. She couldn't lie to Weiss any longer, nor could she feel comfortable with sharing the truth. A fantasy of unconditional acceptance would have to remain just that.

The master of the house peered at her over his wiry glasses. "Really? And what are your plans?"

"My … plans. I would appreciate it if you grant me the opportunity to work at your company. I'm okay with not finishing my education."

He sighed, but in a way that denoted the entire exchange as laborious and inconvenient, rather than a ponderous matter that required serious consideration. He pulled out a sheet of paper and began scrawling.

"You can start out at entry-level," he said, capping the pen once he was finished. "You'll be paid enough to take care of your expenses, same as everyone else in the position. Work hard, and you can work your way up." He folded the page and slid it to her across the desk. "Take this to reception tomorrow morning, and they'll take care of you from there."

"Thank you. I can move into an apartment tonight."

Mr Schnee barely nodded, his attention already on something he considered much more pressing.

Blake left without another disturbance or word, excusing herself without excusing herself.

* * *

 

Weiss was out most of the day, which made things a little easier for her. She didn't have many close possessions, just enough to fill a couple of cardboard boxes.

But they bumped into each other just as Blake was finishing up with packing her boxes into a car, in the driveway. It was all ready to go. She had her apartment, close to the company. All she had to do was get in the car and drive away. Blake considered herself somewhat prepared; she'd read about clean breaks before. All things considered, this was the best thing to do.

"Blake," said Weiss, coming up to her with a puzzled expression. "What's going on?"

"I'm leaving, Weiss. I won't be working here anymore."

"What?! Why?"

"I just have to."

"That's not a real answer."

"You'll figure it out, okay?" She glanced away to the waiting car. "Look, I have to go. Promise to be good?"

Weiss shook her head, and took ahold of her arm. "I … don't get it. Why won't you talk to me?"

"Weiss, let me go, please."

"No!"

Blake whispered, "Don't make this any harder than it already is."

Weiss let go of her arm, but still looked confused. "Well … will I see you soon?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know."

"How _often_ will we see each other?"

"I don't know." _But hopefully not anytime soon,_ she refrained from adding.

Weiss stared at the ground in shock. Blake didn't want to spend any more time on this exchange than she already had, so she saw this moment as a good point to end things. She wrapped an arm around Weiss in a stiff, cold hug, and then she was in the car, quick as could be.

The entire journey to her new home, she told herself that it really was a clean break. It just didn't feel like it in the moment.

* * *

 

It was all Blake could do to not think about Weiss, in the years and years that followed. She had to make sure there was always something to do, something to think about. Largely it was an endeavor which proved successful. Work kept her occupied, after all. And it was much like someone had once told her, long ago: "Work hard, and you can work your way up."

The work was okay. There came a point when it no longer seemed of any consequence in the macro, despite her advancements up the corporate ladder. But it paid well, and she was not remiss to acknowledge the luxury of affording the finer things in life.

She stayed in touch with her parents, physically and in-person, something she had been very much unable to do during her former position at the mansion. They seemed proud of her, that she was doing well, and grateful that she was providing them with monetary aid. Somewhat strangely they had taken the news of her departure from servitude, almost like the life they had thrown her to, all those years ago, should have been a lifelong commitment. It was needless to say that Blake differed on this matter.

However, it was a prominent feeling of relief and vicariously-experienced joy that underlined these initial reunions, and her parents would make it clear to her that they were happy for her, so long as she was happy herself.

And she was. But she would be lying to herself if she thought, at any time over the years that passed, that she could completely rid herself of memories of Weiss, and the old bond they shared.

At the age of thirty-one, she couldn't help but be inclined to reminisce over the occasional glass of dry red. The fondest memories were always the most bittersweet, she found in her reflections; thinking of times spent in each other's rooms, of secrets shared. Then, of course, the one secret she could never reveal to her.

Three presidents ago, a total span of eleven or twelve years, several steps were taken by the then-very-liberal government to encourage all forms of human-faunus interactions. Thusly times were changing, and her kind were being accepted into the societal fold with a reconciliatory wave of a wand.

Very ironic, she found it all to be. Nonetheless, it made her happy to be able to exist as the person she was. She still wore accessories atop her head, but only at work and certain times in public, and all for matters of convenience and an aversion to providing an explanation. People at work and these related occasions knew her to wear bows anyway. In her apartment, or just going downtown, she had less of an issue covering up.

One hand was all it took for her to count the number of occasions Weiss had visited the company throughout the years, not that she was ever around to bump into her; there would always be a company-wide memorandum, issued the morning before a visit, and around the same time that these circulated, a certain bow-wearing employee would always call in for a personal day or two. Such a short period of time missed never had any significant ramifications on her performance, other the odd meeting she would be absent from.

They didn't see each other, and it was never a problem. And then a new memorandum was issued: " _It is with great regret and sadness that we announce the hospitalization of our C.E.O.,"_ it read in part. " _In a coma after suffering a severe stroke … It is not known if Mr Schnee will recover."_ Then, the sentence her eyes flitted back to most: _"To honor Mr Schnee's wishes, his daughter Miss Weiss Schnee will take control of the company in the interim."_

* * *

 

Blake sat down with the black envelope in one hand and half a glass of red wine in the other. It surprised her to see the invitation in her mail. She did not have the slightest inclination to go to the memorial service, and she found it odd that the family had even remembered her after all this time. It made her wonder just _who_ in the family had been the one to send it.

If it were entirely up to her, she would ball up the invitation and in the trash it would go. But that would be rude. She had to R.S.V.P, at least. Then in the trash it would go.

Only short was the e-mail she sent, and to Mrs Schnee's correspondence she directed it. As far as the family were concerned, she would be at a function removed from work. Whatever they wanted to believe was fine with her, though; it troubled her not one bit, and she had a bigger issue gnawing at her anyway.

It was just gone a week since Mr Schnee had died. Weiss had been running the company for a total of two, and in that spot she would remain until the board either voted her in permanently or let her go, not that they would even dare consider the latter. But therein lied the root of Blake's problem. She'd done well to avoid Weiss the past two weeks. But it was inevitable that they would see each other, and that it would either be cold or oh so awkward. Or both. She hated having a problem like this at her workplace; it seemed such an inappropriate inconvenience to have to deal with, and one that could potentially affect her performance in future.

Of course she would have to maintain her professionalism. The company wasn't a schoolyard, and there was no reason for her to act like a petulant child. From what she'd heard around the offices, Weiss was also quite the consummate professional. There was no reason for Blake to believe that Weiss would think about it as deeply, either.

She didn't want to leave her job; she had been there quite a long time, long enough to really like the work she was doing. So that wasn't going to happen.

On the surface it left a seemingly simple route: just behave, and behave like nothing was wrong and nothing had changed.

 _Easier said than done_ , she thought. She decided that it wouldn't hurt to top off her glass.

* * *

 

As it turned out, she didn't have to do a whole lot differently. Rumor circulating throughout the offices was that the incoming C.E.O. was developing a reputation for being difficult to reach. Stories were quickly surfacing of locked doors and long hours spent at the office each night. When the speculation of what Weiss may be up to arose, nobody that Blake spoke to seemed to have a solid idea. The odd few even floated a theory of her not even coming in to the office, instead spending her time and money in a vacation spot somewhere in the far-flung world.

Blake refused to humor these particular people, and suggested that it would be a good idea for them to get back to work.

She did wonder herself – she would be lying if she said it didn't provide a source of mild interest to her – but it didn't take up much of her time. Perhaps her mind would wander to the topic during a lunch break or a drive home, but then it would float away rather easily. When she thought about Weiss in more depth, it was instead concerning more personal matters.

* * *

 

The department Blake worked in managed all things to do with public relations. One part of this encompassed relations with the faunus peoples, and this was where she devoted a large portion of her time and efforts. She managed the couple of corporate events meant to "bridge relations", which always went more successfully than she projected them to. The rest of her time she would spend on reports, research, meetings and agreement brokerage. A few more solid years in the business, more prominent roles, and she would be on the fast-track to an executive promotion. It was a boon job, and one that she had worked herself up to without even completing any General Education Development equivalents. Of course she had Weiss's family to thank for that in part.

Her current project was a presentation that would be made to some important names in the not-too-distant future. At this stage, she was focusing intensely on it and not much else. And when that happened, she stayed behind to keep working, even as her colleagues went home for the day.

This was the first night of that stage.

The department's offices, much like the rest around the company, were equipped for those who worked later, insofar as coffee and vending machines standing innocently in corners, pretending like they didn't grasp the depth of the power they wielded over the common desk jockey. And while Blake liked to pretend that she was better than them most of the time, she too, during these late pre-presentation shifts was known to bow to their reckoning, espresso and miniature packets of jelly beans her preferred weakness.

She stood, swaying a little, by one of these corners as her third cup of espresso poured itself into her life, when footsteps approached from around the corner.

"Oh. Good evening, Miss Belladonna," Weiss said.

Blake perked up immediately. Suddenly the coffee wasn't as necessary. She would still drink it though.

"I take it you're working on the Greene presentation."

Her tone was neutral, and Blake knew that it was going to be an exchange laced with underlying tension. But the shorter she could keep it, the less likely it was to progress awkwardly.

"I am." The machine beeped, and she gulped down hot coffee as soon as the cup was in her hand. She looked at Weiss, and saw a woman much like how she saw herself: postured, well-mannered and kempt. Her hair, in its usual off-center ponytail was longer than Blake remembered it ever being, and her face was still quite full. She looked every part the serious businesswoman.

"First long night in many, I'm assuming."

Blake hummed a note of agreement. "That's right. Meeting's at the end of next week."

"Yes, I remember."

"Of course."

"How is it looking so far?"

Blake shrugged, but she wasn't really thinking of a meaningful answer. She had been wrong; the conversation was already awkward and not even ten sentences had been exchanged.

"Good," she eventually said. "What about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well … take tonight. How come you're still here?"

"I visit each department after our usual office hours end. If anyone is still around, which occasionally some are, which you are tonight, I will talk to them about what they're working on. I like to keep updated."

"People around here … I don't know if you've heard … but you've got a bit of a reputation."

"I'm aware. They think I'm a recluse of some sort. This isn't true. I just have a lot of work to do because I've only just stepped into this permanent role as C.E.O. And I keep my office locked while I work because I don't want to deal with any interruptions throughout the day."

Blake noticed that Weiss's tone had barely shifted.

"Mm," she said uselessly. "I better get back to work now, if that's okay."

Weiss nodded. "By all means. Don't let me interrupt."

That was impossible, and part of Blake was sure Weiss knew that. No matter how much she would try to get back into her "zone", there was no way this conversation was going to simply disappear. Whether she had intended to or not, she _had_ interrupted Blake's work. So maybe the rest of Blake's night was shot.

"You know what," she said. She drained the rest of her espresso. "I might actually call it a night instead."

"Oh," Weiss said, sounding surprised for the first time in the conversation. "Okay then. Actually … I'm just about to leave as well. Do you mind if I walk you out?"

Blake shrugged again.

"Whatever. Doesn't bother me."

Weiss nodded. "I'll wait for you."

Blake flicked the occasional glances the way of her boss – because that was the way she was personifying herself now, as a boss, rather than an old friend from a past life – as she packed her briefcase and shouldered her laptop bag. Sure enough though, she wasn't bothering Blake. She stood by the vending machine, appearing to examine the bevy of snacks within. Blake straightened up.

"I'm ready."

"We'll clock out then."

They were in total silence for the entire elevator trip down, and remained in total silence as they both clocked out, one at a time.

The parking garage was deserted, and aside from herself and Weiss, it appeared that seven others were still in the office. There were security booths and boom gates at the entrances and exits to the garage, but there were no actual rolling doors or gates to shield one from the elements.

Weiss looked unfazed by the late-night chill, in her thick coat. She pointed.

"There's me."

The car in question was parked in a space reserved specifically for her – Blake raised an eyebrow at the decision to point it out – and it was the car that Blake would have expected Weiss to end up with in a job like this. Shiny, black, clearly expensive – as they approached, Blake recognized the manufacturer's badge. It was the sort of car manufacturer that had a website without any price listings; with a car like this, if one wanted to know what the price was, then one probably couldn't afford it.

Blake's own car was a little pricey, but not over the top. And especially not compared to the sort of car that the head of a Dust empire would drive.

The door opened with the press of a remote button – of course – and Weiss laid her things across the passenger seat. Then she looked over the car at Blake.

"We should do something sometime. Catch up."

Blake drummed her fingers back and forth on her thighs.

"Okay," she said. "Let me know, then. What you want to do."

"You got it."

Before she got in the car, Weiss gave her a half-hearted attempt at a friendly smile. Then she backed out and was gone before Blake even made it to her own car.

* * *

 

Their first attempt at catching up came sooner than Blake expected. After another long day completed, she went down to the garage. Weiss was already down there, and didn't seem in any hurry to leave. She was leant against her car, waiting with her hands in the pockets of her trousers.

Add the jacket slung over her shoulder and it would make for a rather photogenic billboard advertisement.

"Waiting for someone, boss?"

"Just you." That took Blake by surprise. There was no passive aggression to it. It was quite matter-of-factly stated, without missing a beat. "I thought we could get a drink."

"Oh …"

A thought surfaced briefly, one that Blake shelved for later discussion.

"Do I need to make it more enticing for you, somehow?"

"Oh, no! It's fine."

"Great." Weiss nodded once and straightened up. "Look for me at The Lounge."

And like that, she was gone again.

* * *

 

The Black Lynx Lounge, or simply The Lounge, as it was more commonly known, was an upper-middle-class bar in the city. A place with waiters and bartenders that wore bowties. It came as no surprise that Weiss would choose such an establishment for her downtime. Fancy beer – Blake hadn't really known such a thing existed.

The C.E.O. had picked out a booth for them, in the corner of the room, and was tap-tapping away on her phone. She looked up, and put the phone away when she saw Blake approaching.

They exchanged their greetings as Blake slid into the booth. She couldn't hold her own gaze, which kept flicking away and back, but she could feel Weiss's stare holding firm.

"Can I get you something to drink? Eat?"

"Uh … gin and tonic? I'm not that hungry though." Weiss nodded and ordered two of the beverages from a passing waiter.

"Do you get out much?"

Blake shook her head.

"Not really," she said. "When I was in my mid-twenties, looking for someone to go home with, yes, but I just don't have the motivation for it anymore."

"I understand. Are you … seeing anyone currently?"

"No. Gave up on that too after my mid-twenties." Their drinks arrived, and Blake took a sip. Weiss nursed hers, still fixing Blake with an odd, almost curious stare. "What about you? Are you seeing anyone?"

Weiss tore her eyes away from Blake for the first time since she'd sat down, and looked down at her drink. "I am, as a matter of fact."

"Really? Tell me about them."

" _She_ is wonderful, actually …" She paused to take a sip. She made a face at the drink before continuing. "Her name is Ruby … and she's with the police force."

Blake raised her eyebrows at the revelation, and leaned back in her seat. "So you're gay?"

Weiss nodded. "I am."

"I never would have guessed. You didn't tell me when we were living together."

"I didn't start addressing it until I was in college."

"Is that where you met …"

"Ruby? No. I met her just after college. She's a couple years younger, but she was already in training by then. We dated for a little while during that time, until we had to take a break for a year or so to sort out … you know, life. But then we got back together and have been together ever since."

"Sounds lovely."

Weiss looked a little wistful. "It is … but you know, I don't want to sit here with you and talk about my love life when we haven't even begun to address … you know, what happened back then."

Blake shifted uncomfortably. This was it. It was going to come up between them some time, especially if they were going to keep seeing each other at work and in life in general. She tried to mine her brain for the right words to say, but her tongue felt like mush. Instead of replying, she took another sip of her drink. Weiss visibly gripped the table, a new emotion in her eyes – determination.

"Blake … I understand you might not want to talk about it, but _I_ do. I need to talk about this with you. And I would like you to give me real answers, if you could possibly manage that."

"It's hard."

"I'm sure you can talk to me about it."

" _You_ are precisely why it's hard." Blake sighed and turned her glass round in a circle. "I'll show you something. But I want you to promise not to get angry with me."

"Okay."

Blake nodded, and took a deep breath. Then she reached up to the top of her head and slowly, deliberately, unravelled her truth, her life, her old solitude and resolute loneliness.

Her other set of ears twitched, feeling the relief which had become increasingly familiar over the span of the last decade.

She looked down at the table, as if in shame, but snuck a cautionary glance at Weiss for her reaction. Her expression had barely changed. She wasn't really looking at her ears, either.

"Wow," she muttered simply. "Looks like we were both hiding some pretty big things from each other back then."

"Looks like it." Blake forced herself to look up. "Are you … mad?"

Weiss leaned forward. "Blake, I need to tell you: I already knew."

"What?"

Weiss drew back, and clasped her hands round her drink.

"After you left, I had to take a good look at my life, because I was sure that you hated me for some reason. I just could't figure it out … until the next time the White Fang attacked us, and my father …"

She trailed off, and Blake could see her grip tighten on the glass.

"What happened?" she prompted, feeling the need to be gentle.

"He hit me. He laid his hand on me and knocked me down. His own daughter."

"Weiss …" Blake struggled to find the right words. "That's … that's horrible."

Weiss nodded, staring absently.

"After that, it was like the pieces of the puzzle just slid into place. It made complete sense, and I felt like the worst person that ever lived for about a month. I had to rebuild my perspective, not entirely because of you, mind you. A lot of things were happening at once, and a lot of things I once thought were right I began to see as just totally wrong. I didn't know how stupid myself and my father were until I was able to step back from it all. In the years since then, I never spoke to him unless it was absolutely necessary and concerned company operations. The last time I spoke to him was about eight months before he died."

"That long?"

"Like I said." Weiss shrugged. "In the end, we only spoke of business operations. Matters like the succession were dealt with when I was much younger, even before I met you, and growing up I learned everything that I needed to know about the company. So what else was there after the White Fang got involved? 'Hello Weiss, how was your day?'" She snorted. "Don't think so."

"But … you're not mad … about me?"

"No, Blake." Weiss smiled. Then her face took on a melancholy expression. "But I'm sorry. I can't begin to say how sorry I am for … myself, back in those years. I was a different person. A person that scared you, and made you feel like you couldn't be entirely true to yourself around that person. And I know that part of that person was my father, and his own prejudices, but that doesn't excuse anything. I was a racist, and a bigot …" She reached out for Blake's hand. "I only hope that you can forgive me."

Blake accepted her hand, but felt conflicted. "It's not that simple, Weiss."

"What do you mean?"

"I want to forgive you right here and now, and tell you that it's all okay. But there's another part of me that's still latching on to all of the hurt, and all of the anger. I didn't want to leave home, Weiss. You gave me no choice. I can't just let go of that."

Weiss looked shamefaced. "I see. I'm sorry."

Blake, though seeing the downcast expression, smiled. "Weiss. I had a thought earlier, before I came here. You were really eager for us to reconnect, weren't you?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Quiet, you. I'm just saying that I understand. And I don't, for a moment, doubt how sincere you are. I know how badly you want this, because I want it too. But we can't just address it in one night and move on. It'll be like we know the house is flooding but we're just papering over the cracks. This is something that we will both need to work through, equally, and it might take some time."

"You've given this a lot of thought."

"It's come up, occasionally … the past decade or so."

"I hear you, though. A bond like the one we used to have, after all … it takes work."

"You know what, I like to look at it more as a bond that we'll not only rebuild, but build upon. How do you like that?"

Weiss gave her a smile. Not a beaming smile, but a crooked one. "It's late, and we should both be heading home soon if we want to be fresh in the morning. Are you working late tomorrow as well?"

"That's what I'm planning."

"I'll see you tomorrow night, then."

 


	4. Track 4: Overjoyed

**Track 4: Overjoyed**

_**And I hear you calling in the dead of night** _

* * *

 

It was a sentence of such general meaning, Blake was sure she was reading too much into it.

"I'm worried about you, Blake."

There was wasn't a lot of chance that it meant what she wanted it too. Weiss was thinking about her, but that didn't necessarily mean anything else. It probably was only as simple as it sounded. Nevertheless, she had thirsted for so long that she relished in Weiss's concern for her. On that sustenance alone, she could hold the thirst at bay a short while more.

On the surface, though, she only regarded Weiss's statement with a loose shrug, and went back to her homework. But she sensed that Weiss was still hovering over her, waiting for a reply.

"You don't need to worry."

"So there's nothing going on?" Weiss raised an eyebrow. "Because I must say, you have been acting a little odd lately."

"Are you sure about that?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I don't feel any different, I don't think I've been behaving any differently. Are you sure that it's me you're thinking of?"

"I …" Weiss sighed. "Never mind then."

"Okay."

"Will we see you in the cafeteria?"

Blake frowned. "Mm, I don't know. I might be a bit busy here. If I don't come down, don't wait up for me."

"Do you want us to bring something back?"

"Sure, if that's okay."

"Anything in particular?"

"Surprise me."

* * *

 

When Weiss left the room, Blake caught herself looking after her, out of the corner of her eye. Watching the swish of her white, waist-length ponytail, watching the way she moved; it wasn't necessarily graceful, but there was still something very dignified about it.

Blake always surmized that it was just one of Weiss's numerous and very endearing mannerisms, much like the times she would pout or her cheeks would puff up with some half-hearted indignation.

She looked down at her notebook and realized, with some embarrassment, that the page was now populated with little, doodled heart shapes. Blushing, she tore the page out and ripped it up into pieces that flew all over the desk, then dropped her head to the desk, groaning inside her throat. With some frustration, she wondered, _At what exact point in my life did I become a teen cliché?_

For some time, it had been something of a problem. And apparently the effects of her attraction had become noticeable to the others. That was a slip, a first reminder that she had to keep things in check. Not her feelings, necessarily – she was becoming reconciled to such a thing no longer being possible – but the way they made her act around her teammates, and especially the object of her attractions. She didn't want any unwelcome questions coming her way, and she certainly didn't want Weiss to be the one asking them.

Gathering up the shredded post-mortem paperwork and balling it into the wastebasket, she resolved to repair the guard around her secret, muttering to herself the whole time about how much it sucked.

If it were anybody else, she wouldn't have a problem. She knew that much. If, for instance, her attraction was to Yang, or to Ren, or to Velvet or even Sun, she would act on it without much obsession. To her, romantic connections were wonderful, but there was no reason to waste so much energy and time dwelling on the maybes and maybe nots, even more so when there was actually no relationship or connection being had.

But with Weiss, she'd proven herself wrong.

Knowing what she knew about Weiss, and her family, there could be no worse idea for her to have than one where the two of them became romantically involved. The list of cons was just overwhelming whenever she would waste energy and time thinking about it; all the tensions between the White Fang and Weiss's family; the same family's attitude towards the faunus in general; Weiss's inheritance at stake, _et cetera._ A lot of red flags and warning signs, in any case.

But logic and reason had little place in these arguments, it always seemed. Because in the end, and the reason why she never tried to talk herself out of her pining anymore, love was love for the sake of those that shared it with each other. No matter how long the list of cons, it withered in the face of such romanticism. She partly blamed it on her constant love for stories and storytelling, and make-believe forbidden-love scenarios.

But now she found that she could easily empathize with those characters, because now she was one, in her very own real-life forbidden-love story.

And if it were anyone else, then she could write her own ending, and have her happily-ever-after.

But Weiss Schnee was the absolute exception.

Some aspects were universally applicable: two lovers and the emotion of love shared between them, for example. Even naming one of the lovers "Blake". But when she tried to name the other lover "Weiss", and she tried to envision the happy ending, the faunus and the heiress riding into the sunset together on a pumpkin carriage, it fell apart before she could even put the pen to paper.

It would require so much to go right, and so many planets to align. There simply was not enough luck in the world to grant her that power.

And besides, she was accustomed to this feeling by now, the feeling of resignation that settled in her gut when she told herself to keep behaving like things hadn't changed since they had become friends.

* * *

 

She kept things quiet in the weeks that passed after what she dubbed "The Close Call". Every now and again she caught the heiress giving her an odd look, but she thought nothing of it. Weiss was probably noticing her many split ends – the way Weiss was with hair, it wouldn't have surprised her, and Blake knew that she could take better care of the hair she had been given, so it never stuck with her longer than a passing second or so.

When she didn't have homework – because she was still a good student – she spent nights laying in bed in her yukata with a book. Admittedly, she had not had the same variety with her choice of genre that she used to have, but she couldn't just betray what was on her mind.

So it came to pass that while Yang and Ruby were doing their own work at the desks, and Weiss was on her own bed with a pen and a notebook, she was curled up with _The Starcrossed Hearts_ for the third time that month. Subject matter aside, Blake always found it an indefensibly engrossing read.

"Blake, can I see you for a minute?"

Blake put down the book and looked over at Weiss, who had apparently stopped doing whatever it was she was doing and was now standing by her bed.

She sat up. "Um, sure. What is it?"

Weiss bit her lip, and cast a glance over at the sisters, who were still deep in their work. "Let's take this outside, actually."

Blake frowned, but got up anyway. "Will I need shoes?"

"That might be good."

"Okay then." She reached under her bed and fished out a pair of slippers.

"We're stepping out for a bit," Weiss announced to Yang and Ruby, once Blake was ready. Without waiting for a reply, they were both out the door and down the corridor.

Blake found the situation amusing, even more so when caught a glimpse of Weiss's face, looking very serious without looking angry or sad in the slightest. It made her wonder what was going on, but when she asked again, Weiss brushed her off, telling her to wait until they were outside.

They didn't walk very far, but it was still a reasonable distance from the building. Probably a couple minutes of walking time. Still, neither of them said anything. Blake was waiting for Weiss, and Weiss seemed to have something very distressing on her mind.

"You aren't fooling me, Blake."

It was a sentence that caught Blake off-guard, and stopped her in her tracks. Weiss turned and stared at her.

"What … what do you mean?"

"I mean …" Weiss came closer. "That you think I don't see what's going on with you. But you're wrong. I'm watching you, and you're still being weird, just like when I spoke to you last time."

Blake took a step back, feeling her heart rate starting to quicken. She'd genuinely thought she was doing better. "I'm telling you, Weiss, there's nothing going on."

"Then why are you sweating?"

"Because it's almost summer."

"Oh. Right."

"Weiss, how do you think I'm being weird?"

"All the little things, Blake. The others don't see them, but I do. So tell me-"

"Tell you what?"

"You can talk to me about whatever it is that's going on, Blake. Sometimes, when we're dealing with certain issues in our life, words are all we have, and all we need to do is talk it out. I can see that you're currently hiding something right now, and I can guess that you've been hiding it for some time, but Blake, you know what?" She reached out and grasped Blake's shoulder, with a sympathetic look. "We're all here to help. I'm here to help."

"Wait." Blake frowned, and shook herself out of Weiss's hold. "What _exactly_ do you think is wrong?"

Weiss shrugged. "Well, I just assumed that you were feeling anxious again, about … something."

"Okay. Firstly, you should never have anything to do with psychiatry, because that was the worst pep-talk I've ever heard. And secondly, you don't know what you're talking about. I'm not like I was back then." She turned to go back to the dormitories building, but Weiss grabbed her arm.

"But something's different with you! I can tell!" Blake met Weiss's eyes. "It's like you approach certain situations with like a … heightened tension, or something! And I just want you to be honest with me! We've been through this _twice_ now, you know!"

Blake huffed. "Fine. Do you want to know what's been going on with me? Are you sure? You're prepared?"

"I am."

Blake shook her head, but, in one step, closed the distance between them, using Weiss's grip on her arm to pull them together, to reduce the gap between their lips until it was nonexistent, and they were kissing.

There wasn't enough time for Blake to relish what she was doing, or even to fully process it, as Weiss pulled away after a couple of seconds, letting go of her arm like she had been burned. When Blake glanced at her, she saw a crimson face and a confusion she was familiar with. Then she quickly looked away, up at the leaves of a distant tree.

"I … I …" she stammered. Blake imagined that she would happy with drifting off into the clouds, if it meant she could keep the feeling of Weiss's lips on her own.

"Yes, Weiss," she murmured. "That's right."

"I can't … you know. I just can't. My family …"

"Yes, I know."

"Blake, I … why wouldn't you say something? That you felt this way?"

Blake stared at her, feeling a little anger creep in.

"What was I supposed to say, Weiss? We both know that nothing would come of it, and I would be hurting just as much as I am now. What else is there to say about it?"

"I'm sorry … I didn't know. And I pressured you."

"It's okay."

"Is it? I can't give you what you want. That's not okay."

"Do you want to?"

"I …"

"Never mind. Forget I asked." Blake turned to walk away once more.

Weiss caught up with her. "Blake, don't walk away from me! We can't just leave this alone."

"Why not? I've been resigned for a long time, that this is the way it's going to be. I've accepted that we can't happen, no matter how much I want us to. So you don't have to try and make me feel better. It is what it is, and we don't have to talk about it."

Weiss didn't have an answer for her, and Blake nodded resolutely.

"I'm going back up," she said. "Feel free to join us when you're ready."

"Blake, come on …"

"At least I know what it's like to kiss you, Weiss. And since we can never happen, that'll have to be good enough for me."

Weiss stopped walking, and Blake went on without her. She knew that when Weiss was watching her walk away, she saw a girl in a yukata with her head down, focusing on the ground before her. What Weiss couldn't see, however, was the expression on her face; Blake wouldn't be able to describe it herself, but she could infer enough from what she was feeling to know that she probably didn't look happy.

Walking back up to the dorm room, she wondered what it was the kiss had accomplished, other than promising to make the dynamic between them eternally awkward.

Maybe, she theorized, that it was her way of creating an ending. It wasn't a happy ending, as she had known it would be, and it wasn't going to provide all-round closure. It provided her some closure, with the confirmation that her feelings were only ever going to amount to naught. It didn't give Weiss closure at all, but that didn't bother her much; Weiss was sure to find a girlfriend or boyfriend that would be approved of by everyone, and that would be that. The book would close, the final pages written during that latest conversation.

 


	5. Track 5: These Streets

**Track 5: These Streets**

__**But even if we won't admit it to ourselves  
We'll walk upon these streets and think of little else  
And I won't show my face here anymore**

* * *

 

Eyes ringed with dark shadows that mingled with the diminishing visibility of brutality and violence previously and occasionally sustained, she rubbed at with a dirty sleeve that reeked of the tang of smoke. It brought water to those eyes.

It was tainted with more than smoke, but smelled of such because she'd had no other choice. She had been starving. Still was, as a matter of fact. She did not bother to ask herself a question as pithy as, _Was it worth it? Burn a dumpster as a diversion to steal some bread?_

Blake already knew the answer to this question, and many others like it. Of course. The owner might lament revenue lost, a sale lost, but she might one day lament losing her life to become a dead young woman walking.

The question was usually the same, in any case. The particulars changed, but the objective remained: perform certain task in order to achieve the objective. One point in a given week it was to deprive a baker of his bread. Another week it was to deprive another displaced citizen of their water supply.

Truly was she on her own in this life. Anything one might have told her about the existence of community and congregation with these people was completely false in her case. Beaten into states of paranoia and desperation, the severity of which varied from empty husk to empty husk, by a system which preached oppression and megalomania on a grand scale, she found that someone who had been in this situation, for years longer than she, was going to be reluctant to share with this young, questionably healthy person who was, quite comparatively, "new."

But it mattered not how long she had lived this life, for the bottom line, when she chose to read it, was oh so apt in posing the question to her of how long she would live this life. She decided that gnawing on a loaf of bread, that was growing increasingly stale and hard, meant that a definitive answer to such a question was no longer a possibility.

Time and energy once spent in want of what she did not have had long since been redirected to being spent in need of whatever she could get. Concerns of a past life quickly faded as more urgent matters pressed on her, weighed down on her shoulders.

After long enough, counting the days as they passed became increasingly unnecessary, and each day and night that did pass seemed to congeal together in her mind, adding to a growing, flowing, river of memories and experience and emotion, which all served as fuel for her continuing desire to exist.

* * *

 

There were those whom, it seemed, existed solely to act as an irritant, or a hindrance to her existence. The second a figure of authority laid eyes on her, she was told, overly sternly, she thought, to move along, an order strongly backed up by the threat of minor force. If she was ever seen with anything that didn't look like it legitimately belonged to her, then she would be questioned on the spot – a process she suspected wasn't entirely legal in the first place – and if said authority deemed the object in question to be stolen or in the least bit dangerous – a very arbitrary ruling that always varied circumstantially and on a case-by-case basis – then they would confiscate it. And _then_ she would be told to move along, the threat of minor force again supporting the command.

It simply was apparent that most police officers that came through her part of town were either racist, self-entitled, or both. And it was pervading attitudes such as this that informed her disrespect for what she considered to be unearned authority. These officers all fell into that category, and she made sure that she could remember all their names and badge numbers perfectly. She had no clue what the information would garner her, but it felt good to have it anyway, like she was stealing some of their trumped-up power for herself.

And, in a world where she had to force herself not to lash out at these people with fists, it would have to satisfy her.

In her mind however, the principle of unearned authority, and what defined it, wasn't simply restricted to law enforcement. There seemed to be a trend popping up, and oddly enough, it was among people her own age: sometimes, when she tried her luck in the classier parts of the city, she would see young, sweater-and-pearl-wearing heirs and heiresses.

Blake concluded that it wasn't possible for these types to be any snootier or pompous if they tried. Everything, from the air about them to the shiny product in their hair, screamed arrogance of a disgusting order.

She hated every last one of them. She watched them parade their parents' money around the streets, almost taunting her in her hiding spot in the shadows. It made her angry and jealous; these kids looked the same age as her, some even younger, and yet the gulf between them would be forever insurmountable.

* * *

 

In her position in life and society, Blake felt like some of the values that applied to the common folk didn't necessarily apply to her. But one of the values that she knew she had to uphold in her everyday life was the value of other people. She had no problem with violence, or fighting; she had landed many a strong right hook and a swift kick to the knee in her time. But that had been part of life prior to ending up on the city streets.

One of the earliest lessons she'd had to learn was to be conscious of her actions. Living on the street, with no friends or family to vouch for her sanity, the principle had to be followed even more strictly. It was not in her best interests to go to prison or an asylum; at least on the streets, she still had her freedom.

Self-preservation. The deeper she would drill down, looking out for "Number One" would always be the most base reason for not engaging a violent human. Sometimes, her intentions wouldn't always come good. When she sported bruises, it seemed to do with a tendency to attract trouble wherever she would walk. Maybe someone would think she looked at them funny, and wanted to exercise the power they thought they wielded. Maybe someone would go after her meagre possessions, weighing up the benefits and negatives of stealing from the destitute. Utilization of speed, situational awareness, and knowledge of the backstreets enabled her to avoid many potential conflicts, but of course there were always occasions when she wasn't quick enough, when she was too tired, when she didn't care. The current purple splotches on her face and ringing her eyes had come from an obvious drug addict that had stumbled across her while she was sleeping. After asking him what he wanted, and growing increasingly disturbed with his disjointed responses, she tensed up, ready to spring. But he was too close, and had caught her with a punch strong enough to stagger her, but not strong enough to drop her. He had been in no real condition for a fair fight, and seemed unprepared about what to do next, so Blake picked up her things and bolted.

And as much as she wanted to commit the act, she had had to remind herself that she didn't want to be responsible for sending a junkie to the emergency room.

* * *

 

Though she was used to it, she didn't particularly enjoy walking the streets at night. The night often gave rise to the more unsavory characters of the city's back alleys, and she preferred much more to be hidden away and safely sleeping, somewhere they wouldn't be able to find her even if they were looking for her. She had a few of these spots around the city; the area she was currently residing was between a bookstore and a store that sold useless ornaments and frames with meaningless photographic reproductions for home decoration. She would have liked to stay in that gap for the night, but, not for the first time, she had underestimated her hunger. She needed to find a little something to eat before settling down for the night.

She managed to sneak two sandwiches from a street vendor cart, whose owner was bending over behind it to fix something. She was gone before he noticed anything was different, and made good time back to the alley. She took a moment to catch her breath, when she heard a rustle coming from the direction of her possessions. She snapped to attention, and started tiptoeing towards her things. As she neared, she could clearly make out a human underneath _her_ blanket. A woman with the strangest white hair.

"Hey!" she yelled, forgoing stealth. She didn't want to fight, but it wouldn't hurt to be direct. The woman stirred, and sat up.

"What?" She rubbed at her eyes with irritation.

"What do you mean, 'what'? That's my stuff!" The woman looked up at her. While she was weakly trying to guard her expression, her pale blue eyes were fearful, and by the ruddiness of her cheeks, it looked like she had done her fair share of crying that day. Blake wasn't having it, though. "Get up!" she ordered.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know it was yours. I just thought that it was left behind."

Blake ignored her, and pulled her up by the arm. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't knock you out cold right here."

She was getting right in this bitch's face, she knew. She had control.

"I-I'll leave, okay?" the woman said. "Just leave me alone, please." She tried to walk past Blake, but Blake blocked her passage. Now that Blake could have a good look at her, she saw that this woman must only have been the same age as herself.

"How long have you been doing this?" she asked.

"Doing wh-what?"

"This," said Blake, gesturing around her. "Living out here, fresh meat."

"My parents kicked me out, and I have nowhere to go," the woman said. "I don't know what to do …"

"What's your name?"

"Weiss."

"Last name?"

"Does it matter?"

"It might."

Weiss was impassive all of a sudden. "It doesn't to me, so it shouldn't to you."

For the first time, Blake was impressed by this young woman. "I'm Blake."

"Blake."

"Yeah. Look, word of advice, _Weiss,_ there are ways that things work out here."

"Don't touch other people's stuff?"

"Surprisingly, no. Half of my food comes from touching other people's stuff." Blake held up the sandwiches as example. " _You_ failed when you caved in out of fear and stopped to talk to me just now. Let me ask you this: can you fight?"

"Not really."

"Then you do what I do. Spend the rest of your life running. If someone stops you, like I am now, you just keep going. If you could fight, then you could stand up for yourself a lot easier, but we can't, so we just have to keep moving." She pointed to her own face, just barely touching the self-explanatory purple marks. "These streets might be ours, but we're never going to be safe in our home like everyone else is in theirs. And you can't fight. So just watch yourself. Stay out of the way. The world wants us to be invisible, fine. Hide yourself like me. Be the shadow that you cast on the wall. And learn. Believe it or not, you have all the time in the world out here. We all do."

"Do you think you could … help me? Learn, that is?"

Blake frowned. "I don't think so. For me to keep moving, I have to stay on my own. I can't have baggage, and absolutely not in the form of another person. Otherwise it defeats the purpose of everything I just told you. The best thing I can do to help you is to send you out of here with my advice."

"Right … well, okay then. I'll get out of here."

"See, you're learning already."

Weiss went to move past, and this time Blake let her through.

"Thank you."

"Hey. Catch." She tossed one of the sandwiches at Weiss, who caught it with a look of apprehension.

"Why?" Weiss said.

Blake shrugged. "My family were assholes too."

"Oh, okay, sure."

"Goodbye, then."

"Uh, yes. Goodbye, and thank you again. Maybe we'll see each other around."

"Hopefully not."

Even as Blake said those parting words, while watching Weiss walk away and out of the alley, she had a feeling that told her this wouldn't be the last time they saw each other. it was a feeling that didn't leave her alone, even as she ate and settled down.

She fell asleep that night thinking about white hair, and fearful blue eyes.

 


	6. Track 6: Weight of Living

**Track 6: Weight of Living**

__**Your albatross / let it go / let it go  
Your albatross / shoot it down / shoot it down  
When you just can't seem to / shake the weight of living  
Under the weight of living / you are under the weight of living**

* * *

 

Of everything that came with such a high-pressure position, some of the decisions she'd been forced to make made her want to tear her long, perfect white hair out of her head.

When her father had been running things, there was one advisor to him that he favored most, whose opinion he had valued above all others. Some of the stories her father had told to her about his experiences with the advisor she remembered quite fondly.

So it surprised her when she, with her liberal values and her ambition for the company to make a positive impact on society and societal relations, and investments for the future, had found herself clashing immediately, with this very advisor. They had argued for many hours about many of her proposals, both clearly on very different sides of the fence.

It was never going to be a popular decision with anyone, and especially those on the board; she herself disliked the decision greatly. But it was obvious what she needed to do, and in the world of business it was just that simple. She was instantaneously perceived as the villain once she fired him, and it was a perception that stuck with her among her employees and some members of the board for a few months afterward.

In the end, it was a decision that had paid off, and both the company and her position had been arguably better off as a long-term result.

* * *

 

The explosion was undoubtedly her fault. She had not been down in the dust mines when it happened, nor was she the foreman on-site, whose very recommendation she had overruled.

 _Did you know that the cavern was so dangerously unstable?_ That was the first question asked at the press conference, and, as it turned out, the only question. There weren't supposed be any questions whatsoever, which they had said at the top of the conference.

In any case, she didn't have to answer the question – she wasn't prepared to even approach the question – so she and her party left it floating in the air.

Sitting at her desk now, with time to think about it, she wondered. If it had been a question-and-answer conference, and the same question had come up – which it would have – what answer could she have given?

 _Uh, excuse me, where are you from …_ The Times? _Okay. I will start by saying that we_ did _have information. But the information we received prior to this tragedy contained details and projections significantly different from what we have encountered. Regardless of the information we received, this was a freak accident._

It was … somewhat honest, but at the same time, she felt like it was a textbook politician's answer. Whilst acknowledging the collapse, it made the Corporation – and herself – look like they were dismissing the incident.

_I made the call. I messed up. Even though the information we possessed seemed of insignificance, it doesn't matter, because I told them to continue their work. Good work, building towards the future. And now, the families of forty-six men and women are grieving their absence. It is likely they are looking for something to blame. Some of them may even be watching this conference. Let me say, that they can stop looking; I am the one to blame for your losses._

She really wanted to say that. She wanted to say that much and more, such as how she would like to stay on as C.E.O. – if possible – and make both recompense to the families and the changes necessary to prevent an incident like this occurring under her leadership again. But no matter how much she wanted to say it, the board would never let her, unless they were already signing her walking papers. _Let the crazy lady say her piece before we usher in the new C.E.O. next week._ The mentalities of certain corporate boards definitely could act that way.

There would be people sad to see her go, both in the company and among the public. Despite the lofty heights of her position, she had made the effort to be friends with a lot of people in her various departments; the members of the company board she was mostly a professional acquaintance of.

She wondered what would come of the people she had specifically employed. After the first firing, she had gone through and handpicked her advisors, who would likely not see eye-to-eye with her successor.

In addition to her advisors, she had also handpicked a number of members of her security. Bodyguards she was close with, friendly with; she had handpicked Blake, a close friend from school, as the head of her security. How would that conversation go? To inform one of her best friends that she was leaving, and how that might affect her own position?

She shook her head angrily. She needed to snap out of it. She wasn't going anywhere. She had a job to do, and first and foremost, a service to provide for the families at the centre of the situation.

She activated her desktop computer, and immediately started typing up a proposal. She typed furiously, and had three pages done before stopping to take a break from it. Then she opened up a new document, and completed it within two pages. She saved it under LETTERS in her directory and reopened her proposal.

There were other things she had to do, no doubt, and she would get to those eventually. But this proposal, regardless of its success, would probably one of the most important things she would do in her tenure.

* * *

 

By the time she finally finished, it was nearing 10.30 p.m. The end of the workday at the company offices was typically anywhere from 5.30 to 6.00.

But she was satisfied with the results of her overtime.

She saved her proposal, backed it up on the local server, and finally switched off her computer. She smoothed out the two-page letter, written earlier, that she had since printed.

No matter what the board or her advisors would say, it had been a day of accomplishment.

She was eager to see Blake, and not just to apologize for making her wait so long. She wanted her to read the letter she'd written, get her feedback. She knew that her friend would appreciate what she was trying to do.

* * *

 

It pained Blake to see Weiss looking so sullen. It was no great effort to tell that she was blaming herself for the explosion.

She wasn't privy to every detail. When it came to company finances and production, Blake only knew as much as Weiss informed her about it. She was welcome to ask almost any question she liked regarding the company – while she held a position as someone in the "need-to-know", she also suspected that her friendship with the C.E.O. was something of an influence – but she wasn't too interested in how the company was performing, as long it was doing well and she had still had a job to go to every morning.

But she did know a few things:

Firstly, concerning the lead-up to the accident; Weiss had no idea what was going to happen at the site. No one did, it seemed. Not that Blake was blaming the foreman on-site – there was no blame to fall – but there was simply no way that anyone at the company could have known what was going to happen solely from his report.

Secondly, concerning the mine itself; it was a mine that the company that had been using for only a few years, after buying it from another company. Never before had they encountered any stability issues at the site. Perhaps it spoke to a certain level of complacency regarding occupational safety and health on the site, but Blake didn't know everything.

And thirdly, again concerning the mine, but also the necessity of it; it was a mine that had helped the Schnee Dust Corporation stabilize output and production over the last three quarters, and had ended up being something of a boon.

As far as her opinion was concerned, there was no-one to be faulted for what had happened, and definitely not Weiss.

But she glanced at Weiss as she led her out of the building and to the car; she didn't see someone who was sharing the same thought process that she had.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

Weiss shrugged. "That depends on what it is you're referring to. Do I want to talk about the accident? No, I don't. On the other hand, I wouldn't mind talking about what's going to happen from now on."

"Okay then. What's going to happen from now on?"

Weiss handed her the two-page letter. "We have to change. Just as much as we did when I became C.E.O. If I said exactly what I wanted to say about the accident in the public eye, people will want me gone. But with an open letter, I can say _some_ of the things I want to say … the important things, and I can also outline what we, the Schnee Dust Corporation, can do for society. I wrote a proposal today, which I will present at tomorrow's board meeting."

"That's unusual, the C.E.O. having to make a pitch."

"Who cares if it's unusual. This is what we have to do."

Blake read the letter carefully. It was about as honest and personal that such a correspondence from Weiss's desk could be.

"When are you planning to post this?"

"Tomorrow, as soon as possible. It'll be posted up on the website, first and foremost. At the same time, people who subscribe to our emails, and stakeholders alike, will receive this letter in a blast. And finally, I'm sending it to _Consumer National_."

"The newspaper?"

"Yes. They can run it in the evening edition."

Blake folded the letter up and handed it back to Weiss. "You're getting on the front foot, I see."

"I have to."

Blake opened the car door for Weiss, and slid in after her. Then she rapped twice on the transparent glass that separated them from the front of the car. They pulled out into minimal traffic.

"Weiss …" she started, suddenly feeling awkward. "You know you can tell me anything that's on your mind, right?"

"I know."

"And I'm your best friend."

"That you are."

"So … I'm just saying that you shouldn't feel like you have to hold back how you're feeling … you know, with the accident, and everything. It's okay."

"Blake, I'm also your boss. Not your psychiatric patient." Weiss yawned. "There's nothing to talk about."

Blake stared at her. "That's not what your letter says."

"I got it out of my system."

She was deliberately avoiding direct eye contact now, but Blake kept her focus trained on her. "Weiss."

"Stop staring at me, would you?!" Weiss snapped.

Blake saw it now, what had really been lying under the mask. Anguish. Distress. But she didn't flinch, nor did she relent her piercing gaze, which Weiss squirmed under.

"Do you want the truth, Blake?" she said, her voice now small and rasping slightly. "Do you really want to know how I feel? Do you want me to lay it all out? Every little detail about how I feel? I don't know what I feel, but it's certainly not happy, by any stretch of the imagination. I don't know what's going to come of this. Right now, considering I'm yet to present my proposal, or post the letter, I would wager that a lot of people don't like me or the company right now. After tomorrow, I will either end up being one of the most hated women on the face of the planet, in which case the board and stakeholders will call for my head … or the public will see what I want to achieve with these changes, and we'll be all on the same page. But things are going to be different one way or the other … the prognosis just isn't very good right now."

Blake took a long time to try and think of an appropriate answer, but all she could manage was, "Hmm."

"Is … is that what you wanted to hear from me, Blake? Or do you want to go into it even deeper?"

Blake finally tore her eyes away from Weiss, and cleared her throat. "No. I get it."

The rest of the journey was in a tense silence. Weiss didn't bother to repair the cracks in her mask, as if not caring how Blake saw her. In any case, Blake stayed true to her word, and didn't press any further.

Eventually the tension between them eased. Towards the end of the trip, Weiss reached across the seat for the reassurance of Blake's hand.

No matter what would happen, Weiss was shaping up the next twenty-four hours to be tumultuous. She needed things to go well. Not just for her, but for those affected by the explosion. She was preparing to present as honest a face as she would ever be allowed. And it clearly scared her. She needed support.

Blake grasped Weiss's hand, and squeezed tightly. She had a responsibility to provide support. It was in her job description as bodyguard and friend.

No matter what, she thought, she would be there to provide support for her boss. And more importantly, her friend.

 


	7. Track 7: Icarus

**Track 7: Icarus**

__**Icarus is flying / too close to the sun  
And Icarus's life / it has only just begun  
And this is how it feels / to take a fall  
Icarus is flying / towards an early grave …**

* * *

 

There had been no reason for them to keep in contact in the years gone by; as far as they knew, none of them had kept in touch. Even Ruby and Yang, the sisters, barely spoke to each other these days. And as Blake was finding out, everyone, not just her, had their reasons for staying away.

Weiss unbuttoned her jacket and laid it across her lap. Then she sipped from her glass of water. Blake said nothing, waiting patiently for her to continue. Around her, busboys moved in a hurry, clearing deserted tables and booths of half-finished plates of pasta and salads and meats, and empty glasses.

"So," Weiss finally said, "I'm sure you didn't come all this way to see me after so many years just for us to talk shop, right?"

Blake shrugged. "Want some wine?"

Weiss fixed the offered bottle with a narrow stare. "Sorry … I don't drink."

Blake poured a glass for herself.

"You say that you don't want to just talk shop. But it's still good to see someone from school after all this time. Especially you, Miss I-Run-My-Own-Company. When was the last time we saw each other? Graduation?"

"I think so." Weiss looked momentarily embarrassed, but then was serious again. "But you're still wondering why I called?"

"I guess."

"Okay," she said. She was eager to get into it, Blake noticed. Like she'd been holding it back for a while. "Here's what's going on: four days ago, I received a call from someone else we used to go to school with. Pyrrha."

"Pyrrha … Pyrrha Nikos?"

"Yes. She was talking about Yang, and she sounded pretty desperate."

"Yang?" Blake frowned. "Why would she still be talking to Yang? We all split up after graduating."

"Apparently unlike the rest of us, they didn't stop seeing each other after graduation. She said that they've been together for a long time now."

"As in …"

"That's right. They live together, a couple of states over." Weiss nodded.

Blake sipped from her drink and raised her eyebrows, a kind of exclamation point. "Talk about unexpected."

"You're telling me."

"Anyway, go on. You said she sounded desperate. Did you ask her about it?"

"Didn't have to. She was calling to tell me. Listen," said Weiss, lowering her voice. "There's been some … problems."

"What do you mean?" said Blake. "With their relationship? I hardly see why we needed to meet on that foundation."

Weiss rolled her eyes. "Stop it. What I mean is … since graduation, and everybody going their separate ways, Yang's fallen to a … a bit of a low."

"Poverty?"

Weiss shook her head. "Substance abuse. Although the two aren't unrelated."

Blake slumped against her chair back, her mouth agape. For the briefest moment her vision swum, unfocused.

"That … can't be true," she said lamely. "Yang Xiao Long?  _Our_ Yang Xiao Long?"

"I don't know how else to put it, Blake. Pyrrha said that Yang's been in and out of rehabilitation facilities for about five years. And just last week she caught her, in possession of a … something that no one should be in possession of. She said that she didn't want to turn her in, but that she was running out of options as well."

"She's … an addict, then. I … I just … I can't believe that."

"Hard to believe."

Blake gripped the table, hard enough that she could feel the wooden edge digging relentlessly into her palm. She was hoping that the pain would wake her up from this nightmare, where an apparition from the past was talking about a fellow apparition from the past and wasn't making any sense at all.

"Take your time, Blake." Weiss was gentle. Blake looked at her slowly, unsure what to feel.

"You've known this for half a week, now?"

"I have."

"Why didn't you call me  _immediately?"_

"Blake, why do you see me acting so calmly while I'm talking about this with you? Because what you're going through right this instant …" Weiss pointed at Blake, and then at herself. "I was there as well. I just had the idea to track you down and call you during my lunch break yesterday."

Blake looked away. She suddenly felt rather ill. "What about Ruby?"

"I couldn't get a hold of Ruby."

"How come?"

"I don't know. I asked Pyrrha, and she said that Ruby hasn't even spoken to Yang since graduation."

"That's insane, Weiss. They're  _sisters._ They were thick as thieves in school."

"My point; what makes you think I can get in touch with her?"

Blake shook her head. "Insane … that's insane."

Weiss leaned forward, determination in her eyes. "Blake, I'm happy to give you all the time you need to process this, for obvious reasons, but you need to realize something: Yang needs help. Pyrrha's tried for years to do it, but there's only so much one person can do with a recidivist. They need help, Blake. Our help."

"And what makes you think we can help?" Blake still sounded hostile, but she was mostly resigned to what Weiss was saying. "Neither of us were particularly skilled at positive crisis management in school."

"We're not in school anymore, are we?" Weiss eased back. "We'll think of something. Like one of those old-fashioned interventions."

"Interventions?" Blake raised an eyebrow.

"The ones where all the friends and family gather in the room and talk it out with the person that has the problem."

Blake rubbed her face, groaning into her hands.

"I know what an intervention is, and it's a terrible idea." She pointed at Weiss, feeling the need to take charge. "Okay … if Yang is just as you and Pyrrha say she is, then she'll just get angry at us and angry at Pyrrha, and she won't listen to a word. She'll just think we're reading from a handbook or something. We don't need to put that kind of extra stress on their relationship. We've gotta think of something that Yang will respond positively to."

"That's easier said than done. That just sounds like an ambush, like you want to take her out for the day and spring our intentions on her during dinner."

"Well, that's not what I was thinking of, funny enough." Now it was Blake's turn to roll her eyes. "Look, if we're seriously going to do this, we need time to prepare for it. To think of what we might say, to think of how Yang will react. The second one will be hard, since we haven't seen her since graduation, which is also why we'll need to keep in regular contact with Pyrrha. If you give me her contact details, I'll call her first thing in the morning."

"What about your job?"

Blake waved the question dismissively away. "They can do without me for one personal day. What about yourself, Miss C.E.O.?"

"I must admit that I'm not as casual as you when it comes to taking my personal days, but I'll think of something."

Blake nodded, satisfied with that. She gathered up her own jacket. "We'll call it a night here. But I want us to meet again sometime over the next few days. Like a progress report."

"I'll call you then."

Blake picked up the check, ignoring Weiss's insistence that she could take care of it herself, and left the restaurant. She flagged down a taxi for the journey home, feeling oddly like she was floating over it all.

Once home in her apartment, she flicked on the lights. She noticed the light glinting off a photo frame, so she picked it up closer to examine it. A photo from graduation day, the last day that the four friends had all seen each other. She was on the far right of the group, smiling at the camera serenely but standing awkwardly – the photographer had captured the moment that Yang, standing next to her, had clapped her strong hand on her shoulder; Yang herself seemed in the middle of laughing rather raucously at something – her mouth was half-open and her head was thrown back, as if the source of her amusement was so unbearable. Her tangled mess of golden hair was spilling its way over her shoulders and down her back. She had grown it even longer that year, as if such a thing was possible.

Weiss was standing straight-backed and unhindered on the other end of the quartet, smiling, much like Blake, but with an expression of pride as opposed to one of calm. She had worn her hair down much of that year, and the photo was no different.

Looking at her in the picture, she seemed tall, as if standing on a stepladder forged of confidence. The embodiment of reassurance. She could still elements of this old Weiss in the Weiss she had met for dinner, but the new Weiss was much more measured, thoughtful, despite her reckless intervention idea.

It would have been comical for Blake to remind herself that Weiss had barely been taller than Ruby at the time of the picture's taking, but she wasn't feeling amused.

Ruby was between Weiss and Yang, looking embarrassed but jubilant, her eyes only on Yang, watching as her sister laughed her head off. She looked so small, standing next to her older sister – their difference in age notwithstanding – but her constant happiness, evident even in the picture, made her look cherubic. It betrayed a sharp intelligence that had had been honed over the years of their schooling. All the more reason for Blake to wonder what she was doing with her life now, why they had heard nothing of her since that day.

Blake put the photograph back and sat on the couch. Without warning she began to weep, surprising herself with this sudden burst of emotion.

* * *

 

Blake dialed the number that Weiss had sent her overnight, a call that went to voicemail after not being picked up.

"Hi, Pyrrha," she said at the prompt of the tone. "This is Blake Belladonna. I met with Weiss last night, and she told me about Yang … If you could call me back, so we could talk … we were thinking of ways that we could help, and obviously … you should be part of that. Call me back. Thanks."

She hung up the phone and hung her head in her hands.

It was early – 8.12 a.m., to be exact – but she had already called in to work and informed them that she would be taking the day off, "for personal reasons". No questions asked, they approved, which had made Blake briefly evaluate how her workplace valued her services. But it hadn't taken long for her to conclude that she didn't really care, so she went on about her business.

It was difficult, working up the courage to contact one of her old friends after so many years without a whisper as to how any of them were. But she had a purpose, which was easily more important than her reticence. So she'd put her hang-ups aside and called. And it had gone unanswered.

_Well …_

Of course it would be foolish of her to give up so soon. But if Pyrrha wasn't answering on the first ring, then it probably meant that she was busy. Or not yet awake. Or she was in the shower. Maybe she had a job of her own, and had gone to work early. It wasn't like Blake had texted her beforehand, informing her of pending contact.

She concluded that she was overthinking the situation, and left her phone to make some coffee, as well as toast some bread and pour a bowl of cereal for her breakfast. When she picked up her phone to take to the table, she found that she had a missed-call from Pyrrha – she'd left her phone on silent, for a reason that was unclear to her.

She unlocked her phone. Pyrrha, unlike Blake, had not left a voice message. She'd written a text message instead:

_Blake! Hello again. I got your message. Just writing to tell you that I'm free to talk today, whenever you find it convenient!_

Very cheery. But still very like Pyrrha, from what she remembered. Perhaps it would be different over a voice call.

She redialed, chewing a far-too-crunchy slice of toasted bread as she waited.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Pyrrha, this is Blake. It's good to hear your voice again."

* * *

 

The call with Pyrrha lasted almost an hour. Half an hour after it had ended, Blake was on her couch, reading the list she'd dictated onto an old legal pad.

She'd split the page into two categories: "The Facts" and "Some Ideas". The entirety of the page was filled with notations.

It was hard on her emotions to read The Facts, to examine exactly what Pyrrha had told her. But, with her objective in mind, she forced herself to read the harrowing details; According to Pyrrha, Yang had been admitted to two different rehabilitation facilities across her city – and one overseas – on at least one occasion  _each_ over the previous five years, with varying degrees of short-term success. Ultimately, however, these were clearly abject failures, evidenced in how Yang had relapsed every subsequent time to date.

Blake digested the rest as she continued down: preference of substances; side-effects of varying approximated dosages; changes in mood and behavior,  _et cetera._ Also included were some general notes from hospital visits – although Yang hadn't consulted many doctors about her habits unless she'd been forced to. Blake understood the rationale.

She wondered seriously how Yang, with a habit of this magnitude, was still alive. According to Pyrrha, she'd only overdosed once in all this time. Blake didn't know much about drug use, but she still knew that an overdose was something of a problem. This overdose had landed Yang in the hospital. It could have landed her in trouble with the authorities, but it seemed that a connection from either the hospital or the police had let it slide.

She put down the legal pad. On her cell phone, she assigned Weiss's contact to her speed-dial, then got up to make another cup of coffee.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

 

She had written down several different ideas, but only one looked particularly attractive. She'd highlighted on the tablet it for Weiss to indicate as such.

"We have to get Yang into rehab again."

"She's a flunky," Weiss objected immediately.

"I realize that. She doesn't have a great strike rate. But I've done some research." She leaned over the table and scrolled down the tablet for Weiss.

"The centers."

"I did some digging this afternoon. There was an investigative article written last year, comparing the practices of different rehabilitation centers in the country."

"These aren't what I would call 'glowing' recommendations," said Weiss, scanning the article in question.

"There was a particular focus in the article on the two that Yang went to in the city. Not great. There wasn't much on the one she went to overseas, but I didn't get the best impression about it from everything I read after this article."

Weiss looked up. "So, what's your point?"

"My point is that I didn't just look at centers in other states. Have you heard of Healing Hands?"

"Have  _I_ heard of Healing Hands? Sure. Aren't they a group that run out of the general hospital here? I think I remember writing a donation cheque for them a long time ago."

"They run out of the private hospital, in fact. I did some research on them too. You'll be interested to know the private hospital actually owns a rehab center on its premises, and that Healing Hands runs this center. Scroll down."

Weiss's eyes widened. Blake continued. "This center has been operating for almost twenty-five years, with a rate of success that makes Yang's centers look deplorable in comparison. I've read a bunch of testimonials and objective opinion, and it looks good."

"Pyrrha couldn't afford to put Yang in these sorts of centers before. Do you want me to sponsor treatment?"

"You can afford it. Your salary is worth more than mine and Pyrrha's put together."

Weiss put the tablet down. "It's still just another rehab center. No matter how good this place might be, there's no guarantee that she won't just relapse again."

"Well, then it's up to us to make sure she gets out of it okay. Instead of drifting apart like we did after school, we stick around in her life. Of course it wouldn't do to put Yang through this and then leave her all to Pyrrha once it's done."

"So we fly her here and put her up in this center. Okay, how do you propose we swing that with them?"

"I'm sure Pyrrha will just be glad to see someone other than herself trying to help Yang, so I don't anticipate any problems from her. Hey, she might even come down with Yang. But Yang herself … I don't expect that she'll take to it like a fish to water. She's going to need convincing that this time will be different."

"Okay. How are we going to convince her?"

Blake bit her lip.

"You don't know, do you?"

"Hey! I don't see you coming up with anything. I'm not a social worker, okay? I'm a desk jockey at a C-list consulting firm that spent all of today trying to think of ways to help an old friend. If you have any ideas, then by all means, let's hear them."

She ripped a chunk from her chicken burger and scowled. She calmed down as she took a few more bites. Weiss said nothing. When she was ready, Blake continued.

"I don't know. There's every chance that this plan dies before it begins, and it all hinges on whether or not we can get her to agree to it."

They sat in silence for a long time, thinking about this problem. Blake finished her glass of wine, poured another, and took a long sip from it until Weiss spoke again.

"Maybe we should pay our old friends a visit after all."

"What's that?"

* * *

 

Blake kept a close eye on her watch and listened attentively to the announcements, keeping track of the names that were being paged by the airlines.

She had gotten to the gate about forty minutes before their flight was scheduled to board. Weiss had sent her a text message saying that she was on her way, but nothing since. It was a big airport, so she hoped that she was at least getting to the end of the security checkpoints.

She ordered a herbal tea from a nearby kiosk, hoping it would calm her. She did not like flying in general, but when so much was at stake it seemed to intensify everything. So when she wanted Weiss to be around, she  _wanted_ Weiss to be around.

She hadn't wanted to mention it to Weiss during their conversation, but Weiss had asked the question anyway.

"You don't seem to be a big fan of traveling. How come?"

"I don't mind traveling. I just … flying is different. I had a bit of an issue on a flight a few years ago, and let me just say that I haven't been big on flying ever since. Anyway, I can't afford to fly interstate and back these days. I'm barely staying afloat as it is."

Weiss shrugged, like it was no big deal. "I'll pay."

"I can't ask you to do that."

"You aren't. I'm  _telling_ you that I'll pay your expense."

Blake shifted uncomfortably.

"Blake." Weiss's tone was gentler. "I'll be with you the whole flight and back. You don't have to worry about anything."

Blake  _was_ worrying. It was going to be her first time flying since the incident, and she didn't want Weiss missing this flight, leaving her on her own. She couldn't remember how to handle the stress. Her psychiatrist had given her some advice, during their first and only session. But that was a long time ago, and not even the luxury of the first class lounge could soothe her nerves.

She looked around the lounge. Businessmen and businesswomen with suits and briefcases, on their various devices. Socialites on their various devices. Everyone looked very fancy and sophisticated, despite the fact that they were about to spend approximately four hours and thirty minutes in a pressurized tank filled with recycled air. Blake wore a T-shirt and sweatpants. She felt a little out of place. When Weiss had told her that she would pay her expense, she was expecting a seat at the back of coach. She had clearly underestimated how much her old friend didn't care about spending money.

The automatic doors opened, and Weiss strolled through. Blake jumped up when she saw her.

"I'll bet you're glad to see me."

Blake realized that people were giving her odd looks. She tried to keep her cool, but still felt jittery. "Are you kidding? Do you know how late you are?"

"I'm not late at all, calm down." They both sat down. "I take it that this isn't going so well for you."

"Really?" murmured Blake. She waited until Weiss wasn't looking, and rummaged in her purse. "No, no, I'm doing just fine …"

* * *

 

Fortunately, she managed to spend most of the flight sleeping. Weiss assumed that she hadn't gotten much sleep, so she was a little relieved. She'd expected to be sitting adjacent to a wide-eyed, terrified, and possibly sweaty Blake. Instead, she was still and docile, the window shade protecting her seat from the outside light.

She had wondered what happened three years ago to instill such a fear in her friend. Blake hadn't said much on the issue, other than that it was an incident she had gone through herself, rather than a relative or other close friend. It had clearly been traumatic enough to bring her to the verge of tears and hyperventilating in the first class lounge. She'd made a mental note to dig out that information sooner rather than later. Before their return flight would be preferable, but since they had reconnected, it would not be the end of the world if they talked about it further down the line.

She had been far more active on the flight; there was still plenty of work to do, and she felt the suspicion that some within the company had not been overly fond of her going away on such short notice.

Wherever she went in life, it would seem like there were always decisions to be made. Some mundane, others that would ultimately have an undesirably large impact on her life. Since becoming C.E.O., she'd found that the lines between her personal life and her professional life had blurred, and decisions she might once have dismissed were suddenly vital to maintaining good workplace practices or smart P.R. moves or whatnot.

Sometimes it was an onslaught. By now she was used to the constant flood, and just how wide her influence stretched. But when she had first taken over, it had surprised her to see exactly the breadth of matters that concerned her, or had to be run by her to get approval. One minute, it was continuing discussions regarding marketing stances. The next, it would be a harassment dispute being handled by a H.R. officer who felt the need to consult her before she made any moves in mediation. The minute after that, she would be looking at an email from the company's lawyer; yet again, someone was trying to sue them.

Part of doing her job effectively, however, was learning to cope with all that, and manage it all at a level that was much more than satisfactory, all the time.

She was often asked how she did it. How did she run what was the biggest and arguably one of the most influential corporations in the world?

There was no simple answer, she had found. A long time ago, she had thought otherwise. The pursuit of that "answer" had almost destroyed her life and that of the company, and she had vowed to never go back there. She was lucky that she had had enough wits about her to go insane within the privacy of her own home, and no-one had caught wind of her problems. The financial journalists would have had a field day; "SCHNEE'S ERRATIC BEHAVIOR WORRIES STAKEHOLDERS", and the like.

If only they had known.

* * *

 

There was a car waiting for them when they left the airport. On the way to the hotel, Weiss listened as Blake yawned beside her.

"Nice nap?"

"I don't know."

"That's funny. You looked quite peaceful in your seat there."

"No kidding. How was your flight?"

"I had to get some work done."

"You always have to 'get some work done'. What's with that?"

"I'm a C.E.O., Blake, in case you'd forgotten. Always more work to be done."

Blake shook her head, as if to shake out the cobwebs and cotton balls.

Weiss frowned. "Blake … maybe we should talk about your … fear of flying."

"No, no, we don't have to do that."

"Are you sure? I don't want there to be any problems on the way back."

"So what? I'm a hopeless case, all of a sudden? I was fine on the way here, according to you."

"I just want to know what's wrong."

Blake's face closed off immediately; she crossed her arms, stared out the window. Weiss sighed and turned her attention to her cell phone.

It was coming up to 2.30 p.m. They were going to meet Pyrrha later in the night, so as to inform her of their plan. But before that, they had time to relax around their hotel room. Blake could finally get some sleep, and Weiss could catch up on everything she had missed since landing. They would be staying for two nights. Tomorrow, provided they had Pyrrha's blessing, they would finally talk to Yang. Then, pass or fail, they would be leaving the next morning. If they succeeded, Pyrrha and Yang would be on a flight at the end of the week.

Weiss checked in at the desk. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Blake wave away the porter and drag their suitcases to the elevator herself.

"43rd floor," she said, catching up to her in the elevator. Blake nodded and pressed the button. On the way up, Weiss wondered what was worse: the idea of having to create a conversation, given the tension, or listening to the obliviously optimistic elevator music. She watched as the number on the screen rose, all the way to 43.

Blake said nothing to her, even once they were in their suite. Weiss explored it, eventually coming to the bedroom. They only had the one double bed; Weiss didn't have a problem paying for two first class, round-trip tickets, but they were only going to be staying at the hotel for two nights. They could put up with each other for that long. She hoped.

"You didn't mind sharing, did you?" she asked.

Blake pushed past her, into the bedroom. She closed the door behind her.

* * *

 

They had all agreed beforehand to meet at a diner downtown, hoping for a low-key affair. Blake seemed to have warmed since waking up from her afternoon nap, so they exchanged chatter while waiting.

When Pyrrha walked in, they recognized each other instantly – though Pyrrha looked quite different to how they remembered: her flame-red hair was now highlighted with blonde streaks, and worn down; she had the same green eyeshadow, only more of it; her fashion sense had once spoken of shamelessness, but she now wore a sweater and dark slacks. She looked conservative. Not necessarily demure, but she certainly no longer looked she would be the most dazzling in a crowd.

Above all else though, Weiss thought as they greeted each other and Pyrrha took her seat across from them, she looked tired. She recognized the look in her eyes; it was a look she had seen in the mirror countless times. In that moment, she actually saw her younger self embodied in the woman sitting before her. She saw the stress, the burden. It hit home the gravity of what they were trying to do, and what was before them. She looked down at her hands. Was that just the slightest tremble she saw?

She interrupted the small talk being exchanged between Blake and Weiss, and excused herself. Fresh air, she said.

She took deep breaths out on the sidewalk, making sure to savor the polluted city air. Wonderful. She coughed.

Suddenly she was wondering. Doubting. She had sounded more confident before the flight. She had actually felt confident before the flight. Thinking that it would be so simple, to convince a substance addict – with with a history of constant relapses – to just pack a bag and check herself into another clinic. It was supposedly brilliant, but how would they ever know if Yang was to kick them out of her apartment tomorrow?

Weiss frowned. If that was to be how the events next day unfolded, then she had to admit that she could not blame Yang. They were going to be jumping back into her life after almost a decade of silence, and with barely any warning. Furthermore, they would not exactly be inspiring a friendly catch-up over coffee or tea.

She looked back through the diner window, watching as Blake handed Pyrrha the tablet outlining their "proposal", watching as Pyrrha read the information with an expression that Weiss could not read from her position.

She sighed heavily, feeling it roll through the slump of her shoulders. She didn't want a drink, but at the same time, she  _wanted_ a drink.

* * *

 

The little reunion/tactical assessment had lasted roughly 90 minutes. In that time, the party had perhaps spent fifteen minutes partaking of their entrée and dessert selections. The other majority of the time had been designated toward discussing their "plan".

Pyrrha was initially reluctant; she shared the same concerns that they had had from the beginning. But after they all went over it – with long and sometimes tangential detail – it was clear that she was willing to accept the proposal. She would talk to Yang when she got home, she said, and would let them know before midnight.

On the way back to the hotel room, Blake kept an eye on Weiss. She looked troubled, though she was trying rather well to hide it.

She decided that it might be better to air grievances before they were due to speak with Yang, so she cornered Weiss in the kitchen as soon as they were back.

"Hey," she said. Weiss turned around, and took a half step back when she realized how close they were.

"Is there a problem?"

"Maybe." She was silent for several moments. Then she backed away to retrieve a small bottle from the minibar. She gestured to the couch. "Sit."

She knew that Weiss was looking at her like she was the strange one, but she heard footsteps anyway. She grabbed two glasses and joined Weiss, who had decided to take a seat on the armrest of the couch.

"What's this about?" said Weiss. Blake noticed the clench in her jaw, the slight stiffening.

"Drink?" She held the glasses aloft.

Weiss stared at her. Then finally she said, "Sure."

Blake couldn't help a look of mild surprise. But she nodded, and emptied the bottle into the glasses. She handed one to Weiss.

"Want some ice?"

Weiss looked down at the glass in her hand as if she were looking at something particularly foul. "If I am as obvious with my mannerisms as I think I am, then you know by now that I am an alcoholic."

"Wow, Weiss."

"Recovering, to be precise."

"Then … why did you take the drink?"

Weiss swished it. "It's been so long …"

Blake considered her own drink, but did not partake. "You haven't said a whole lot since we landed. You were practically absent at dinner. Is this what you were thinking about?"

"Not entirely."

Blake knelt by her, and took her hand. "You can tell me. If this is going to affect how we go tomorrow, then I should know, for Yang's sake at least."

Weiss made a "tsk" sound and stood up. She crossed her arms, her lips pursed.

"Weiss, please."

"It's the problem, Blake. The problem with all of this, with Yang."

"You're having second thoughts?"

"For the rest of my life, I'll be an alcoholic. Hopefully I can use the prefix 'recovering' for all of that time. But there's no guarantee that I will be able to do that. I accepted your offer of a drink." She raised the glass, letting the scent sharpen around her head. "I could take a sip of this tonight, and tomorrow I could be in full-blown relapse. At the same time, I may not. My point is that there's just no way we can guarantee anything."

Blake stood up, leaning her hands on the couch. "So, what? You wanna just go home? Go back to work and forget about our friend-"

Weiss rubbed her hands over her face. "It might not work, she might hate us forever, it might destroy her relationship …"

" _She_ is destroying it already!"

Weiss shut her eyes and sighed.

"I think the best thing for Yang is to just treat her like an adult. She has to figure out what she's doing wrong. If seven visits to rehab can't get her to see it, then how in the world are we supposed to? I got through my problem completely on my own, with the exception of a few trusted ones. I was much younger, and I knew what my problem was. Afterwards, I knew why the problem existed, the thought process that led from me opening my email or concluding a board meeting to sitting in my master bedroom at home with two bottles of wine or liquor every night. I wouldn't always finish them, but that doesn't mean I didn't try. I went insane in the privacy of my own home and I managed to do a duct-tape job of fixing it." She walked over to the kitchen sink and poured her drink out. "And every day, I wonder when it will all come apart again." She sighed again, heavily, and Blake saw the significant rise and fall of her shoulders. She deposited the glass in the sink and walked back over to join Blake, sitting down once more.

"Blake, I don't want to give Yang that same false hope. She will always be a drug addict in the same way that I will always be an alcoholic. It's pessimistic, but it's what I believe to be true. What if anything we can do is just another bandage, and she falls off again? I don't know if I could live with the guilt."

Blake sat down next to her. "We just have to find a way to keep trying. Keep looking for ways to help."

Weiss rubbed her eyes. Then she glanced at Blake and chuckled.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. It's just, you're very dedicated to Yang, even though neither of us knew she was alive not ten days ago."

"I loved her. I loved Ruby. I loved you. You three were my best friends for only a small part of my life, but those four years were everything. How is it that we all drifted apart so quickly?" She let the question hang, knowing that neither of them had the answer. "I want to help Yang because when I remember her, I remember those days, and what it was like."

"It won't ever be the same again."

"I know."

"She'll have every right to hate us."

"I won't be surprised," Blake replied. She bounced her leg up and down a couple of times. "I'm sorry for shutting you out earlier."

"I pushed your buttons."

Blake shrugged, and emptied her glass as well, only into her mouth.

"There was a story on the news three years ago. A two-minute report about a man who went postal on an international flight, bound from an overseas country to back home. Out of nowhere, the guy started screaming. When the flight attendant came over to calm him down, he stood up, and punched her. Once in the stomach and once in the face while she was doubled over. A woman in the seat next to him tried to stop him from doing any further damage, but he attacked her as well. Over and over, punching and throwing things at her. He even managed to land a solid kick to her chest. Then three people jumped on him and managed to perform a citizen's arrest. He had a litany of charges slapped on him afterwards, and was convicted of all of them not six months later. I hear that it took the jury an hour to deliberate, and only because they spent some of that time talking about the previous night's football match."

She laid down on the couch, resting her head on the armrest.

"I was asked to testify," she continued. "But there were 245 others on that flight who knew what happened. Half of them likely saw it. They all testified anyway. So I didn't think there was a need for the testimony of the woman sitting next to him … the one who had tried to stop him. I refused to testify, and requested to remain anonymous."

She glanced at Weiss, who seemed to be in deep thought, frowning, her brow furrowed in concentration. She was listening, even though she wasn't looking her way.

"The flight attendant suffered a broken jaw. I suffered a fractured eye socket and a fractured cheekbone, as well as bruised ribs from his kick. I eventually met the flight attendant, about a year later. Funnily enough, we discovered that we were seeing the same therapist. Though I guess that might not be a whole lot of coincidence.

"Until yesterday, I had not flown since that international flight three years ago. There would be times when I was asked to fly, because of work. But I would always have to turn them down. It's probably why my current job is so shitty. I never knew for sure how I would go if I just got on another plane."

"You were fine yesterday," Weiss finally said. "You slept."

"Sleeping pills."

"Sleeping … pills."

"I had some issues with insomnia after the plane incident. I was prescribed pills. Sometimes I still need them if I'm having a bad time trying to get sleep. They were useful yesterday, and I plan to use them when we fly back. So I guess I still won't know how I'll go the next time I get on a plane."

"Blake …" Weiss's voice was quiet when she finally looked at her and spoke. "I'm sorry … that that happened to you, that you had to go through a trauma like that alone. It must have been awful."

"Actually, I ended up dating that flight attendant for a while, so I wasn't  _technically_ alone. But I get what you're saying. So thank you. I see what you mean as well."

"What's that?"

"About you, and Yang. How you might always just be recovering from or partaking of. My injuries have healed, but I might never recover, psychologically speaking. We're all running from something, it looks like. But can you see what  _I'm_ talking about?"

"I think so. It feels selfish to talk about Yang like this, though. Like she's a tool for our own respective recoveries."

"Do you think that's what we're doing?"

"It just feels like it."

"I wanted to help that man and that flight attendant back then, and I still want to help now. I want to help Yang. That's what we're doing here, Weiss. If it helps  _us_ in the process, then that's a bonus. But make no mistake: I'm here for Yang, not for me. What about you?"

Weiss stood up. Blake grabbed her by the wrist.

"What are you here for, Weiss?"

"I came for Yang." Blake let her go. "We'll have to see how this all pans out, won't we?"

"Are you going to take a shower?"

"Yes. And then I'm going to bed. When Pyrrha calls, don't wake me. We can talk about it in the morning."

"What we've just said to each other … think about it some more."

"How could I forget?"

She disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Blake with an empty glass.

* * *

 

Weiss yawned, and rolled over.

"Ouch."

She woke with a start. She sat up and quickly glanced at the body next to her.

"Sorry," she said.

"Don't worry about it," said Blake, rubbing her cheek.

The alarm clock read 9.13 a.m.

"I'll make us breakfast."

"You can cook?"

"Of course I can. The patriarchy demands it, after all. No matter where we come from."

Blake gave her a crooked smile. "Really? Well, no-one told me."

Weiss sat on the edge of the bed and stretched out her arms, her legs. "Just freshen up before you come and eat."

"Fine, fine." Blake rolled out of the bed. Just as she was about to enter the bathroom, she paused. "About last night …"

"I'm not talking about that right now. Go freshen up, and we'll talk about it all over some food."

Blake nodded and left.

Despite her humble boasting, Weiss's culinary skill was far more rudimentary than her classy pedigree would otherwise suggest. She made toast, poured both juice and coffee. Then she made omelets, filled them with cheese. She just managed to get them right.

She served them with relief.

"Did you get the call?" she asked, after they'd begun eating.

"I did."

"And?"

Blake tentatively smiled. "Yang wants to see us."

Weiss nodded. "Okay. That's a good start."

"Pyrrha said to come over sometime around midday."

"Okay. Okay, this is good."

"Weiss?"

"Hm?"

"Are you freaking out?"

"After last night, yes. A little."

"What would Yang do, I wonder? The Yang we knew in school?"

Weiss shrugged. "Make some sort of joke?"

"She'd tell us that it was going to be fine. She'd reassure us. Here."

Blake made a fist, and held it out. When Weiss didn't react, she sighed.

"Weiss. You remember this, don't you?"

Weiss went back to her eggs. "Yes. I do remember. And I don't think I want to do that."

"Come on." Blake grinned. "'Are you really gonna leave me hanging'?" she imitated in a high, goofy voice that evoked memories from years gone by.

Weiss rolled her eyes. She formed a fist of her own and bumped it against Blake's.

"There we go." Blake nodded.

Weiss sat back and resumed eating, feeling a little foolish. "That was  _lame_ , wasn't it?" she murmured, between forkfuls of egg and cheese.

"It was very lame," Blake said. "But we both know it's what she would have done."

 


	8. Track 8: Oblivion

**Track 8: Oblivion**

_**When oblivion / is calling out your name  
You always take it further / than I ever can** _

* * *

 

It wasn't uncommon for either of them to fall asleep on each other's shoulders. It occurred at admittedly a rate that embarrassed them both, and especially during the winter, when they would huddle together under a blanket in front of the fireplace and watch sitcom marathons on Blake's laptop until either or both of them would doze off.

But as much as it embarrassed them, they loved these moments they were together. When they were apart, they always looked forward to these trysts, to being able to spend lazy days in each other's arms.

When they parted, there was always a part of them that couldn't help but worry if they were parting for the last time.

Weiss worried the most. What did she do that would cause Blake the same amount of worry? Blake was the professional Huntress, after all. The one risking her life for days, weeks, sometimes even months at a time. She was just a businesswoman. An executive, but still just a businesswoman. The worst she might face would be redundancy. Not that that was ever likely to happen.

Weiss knew exactly what Blake was doing. She'd lived that life herself, if only for the year it had taken her to be injured out of the career.

She knew that Blake was going out there alone, taking the fight to all variants of the creatures of darkness. She was good at the job too, one of the best from their graduating class. And even though it embarrassed her to admit it, her semblance was useful in case she needed to escape a hairy situation. The odds were in her favor, as much as they could be for a career Huntress.

But Weiss could simply not help the sick, heavy feeling that would swell in the pit of her gut every time she said her goodbyes.

There was an inherent and obvious danger to what Blake was doing. They both knew that. But they also knew never to speak about it. Only once had they done so, when their relationship was only beginning and they were both plying their trade in the field. It was unpleasant as Weiss had expected it to be. Nevertheless, after her injury, it had formed part of her consideration to retire. Blake agreed to the decision. It would be fine, she said. She would stay in the field, and Weiss could take a safe job when she felt better. She was all but guaranteed an executive position, so it would work out.

And work out it had, to an extent. Now the only panic that Weiss could feel had nothing to do with her own welfare.

* * *

 

Blake often thought of herself as someone who had spent a number of her younger years wishing, counting the stars as the moonlight glowed upon whichever gutter she had decided to make a temporary home. A roof. Food. Clothes that had only one or two rips. A family that wasn't a deadbeat footnote in the aspiring tragic's dream that was her life.

As luck had it, she had been granted some relief. Taken in by people that weren't despicable bastards, sent to an academy for the hopeful heroes that would inevitably populate one of many storied mausoleums. There she had met the three people who sought to change her life, in all manner of ways. One of these three had had an impact deeper and far more significant than any others, before and after. They both knew that; they didn't keep secrets, because there was never anything of such drastic, personal importance to conceal.

Which is why, when Weiss was considering retirement, Blake had supported her fully. Her own convictions, her own feelings about the job, none of it mattered, and she had told Weiss that much. She would love Weiss no matter what she decided, whether she wanted to leave the game and take a "safe" desk job, or to start a career as an underground, mixed-martial-arts fighter. And with the latter firmly out of the question, it became a mutual conclusion. They always talked about growing old together, and Weiss seemed to believe that her job was an investment towards that dream.

Blake wasn't quite sure exactly what it was that her partner did for a living anymore; something to do with money and computers and the stock market, but her understanding wasn't any more enlightened. Weiss was no help, her descriptions and recaps of her day's work wishy-washy and demanding further explanation that would never come. But it wasn't the job that Blake had been concerned with. In those first months, she had worried for Weiss's mind.

She'd met and spoken with a number of "veteran" Hunters – who were normally barely over 35 – and she had gleaned the same thing from every conversation: they _hated_ "normal" life. So dull, they agreed, to even go hunting animals for sport, let alone sitting at a desk for eight hours a day. There was nothing that quite lived up to that thrill, and that rush, that could only come about from Hunting. Blake wasn't sure she agreed wholly with the sentiment, but she had to concede that they had been at the game longer than her, so they would obviously know from experience. Since getting into Hunting as a profession, she had never thought about wanting something else.

Until she came home, and they had each other all to themselves. When she came home, and they had each other all to themselves, those were the moments when Blake wanted nothing more than to be in her love's arms. She could see herself, in either the throes or the calm moments, agreeing to give up Hunting, to just follow Weiss's lead and take a straight job.

But it was just a fantasy, one that never existed anywhere outside of their house. It just wasn't in their reality. Unsustainable as Weiss thought the life to be, Blake was a Huntress, and that was something they had both come to terms with over time.

* * *

 

The darkened forests always made for such an … _alive_ atmosphere. It was like Blake could hear the wildlife growing in her surrounds.

They were never her ideal conditions for a Hunt, but they offered covert spots for leaping to and fro. If she were a more practiced kunoichi, a forest could easily be her playground. But such was the cost of falling in with bandits and mercenaries instead of following the ninja paths. She was only able to do so much in this terrain.

She reset her motion-tracker, briefly wondering if it was broken; no signatures so far, yet this forest was supposed to be a hotbed for the creatures of Grimm. But the tracker scanned again. It seemed to be operating, but she would have to raise her awareness. Her night vision wasn't what it was when she was a teenager, but she still had a reasonable amount of clarity.

A roar sounded in the distance. The beasts knew she was there; they could smell her. She couldn't see any, and the tracker reported nothing within 20 feet.

She began to run towards the sound, unsheathing her weapon.

Then came a rustle to her side. She pivoted towards it.

* * *

 

The ringtone Weiss had always dreaded blared from her cellphone. It was a ringtone she'd assigned to their doctor at the General Hospital, a line which she had made expressly clear to him to only be used in case of dire emergency.

Weiss immediately feared the worst. Blake was dead. She had failed, been unable to defend herself from a fatal Grimm strike.

She didn't want to answer the cell, so she let it go to voicemail. Then the ringtone went off again.

She swallowed, felt only dryness in her throat and mouth. She felt like she might be sick.

Reluctantly, she answered.

"Hello?" she croaked. "What happened?"

* * *

 

Blake was not dead, but she was extremely lucky to have ended up that way. The claws of the beast had missed major internal organs and her spine, but she had lost a lot of blood and was still in surgery.

Weiss wanted to cry. She wanted to lay across the bench seats in the waiting room and cry.

It was a rare feeling for her. Few things in her life had ever rendered her so emotional. Even when she made the decision to retire from Hunting, she hadn't felt it. In fact, the last time had been six years ago, when she had first given herself to Blake. The first time she'd given herself to anyone. It was embarrassing to recall, and completely inappropriate to the current situation, she felt, but that was how strange it was for her.

The doctor, as if sensing the impending breakdown, gently grasped her shoulder and instructed her to follow him to the on-call room, where he would let her wait if she wanted to. His voice dripped with sympathy.

Saying nothing, she crossed her arms and followed him, keeping her eyes down, and focused on the backs of his shoes.

She did not look up to acknowledge the other doctors that stopped them to ask where they were going. When the doctor said he was taking a "distressed patient" somewhere to lie down, she did not correct him, or offer reprimands. She just wanted to keep moving until she didn't have to move for a while.

Once there, he told her to pick a bunk. It would be a while before Blake was bandaged and in recovery, so she could take a nap if she wanted to. And if anyone asked what she was doing there, then she could just say that he let her in.

She barely acknowledged him.

* * *

 

It might be a long time before she comes to, the doctor said. But Weiss had no intention of leaving. She tightened her grip on Blake's still hand.

He eventually left them, and was replaced by a nurse, who also pestered them for ten minutes before they were finally left alone.

She wanted to lose herself in all sorts of rare and common feelings. Blake was alive, somehow, though it had been dicey on the operating table. Would Blake Hunt again? Weiss was relieved that she would be lucky enough to walk again.

She had no intention of letting Blake resume her job. She hoped that Blake would agree, because if she didn't, then Weiss had no idea where to go from there.

She didn't want to think about it anymore. She wanted to hold Blake close, to be there when she finally woke up. The machines around the bed whirred and beeped, the fluorescent lights hummed. It was strange to see Blake in such a vulnerable place. It wasn't something that happened often. Such a large amount of gauze and bandaging was even rarer. With the wrap around her head, she was almost unrecognizable. Or at least, very different to the person who had waved goodbye at the hangar.

She wondered if she could ask for the clothes that Blake had been wearing. Probably not, if the attacks had ripped them apart. Maybe the surgical team had had to cut her out of them. If that was the case, then they would probably be sitting in a bin somewhere. Didn't they incinerate clothes sometimes? She hoped that they hadn't burned Blake's combat suit. Even though she wasn't going to use it ever again, maybe she would like to keep it for sentimental value.

There were about three more visits from nurses, and one from the doctor, who offered to call a cab to take her home.

She refused.

* * *

 

The wounds were more serious than Blake had anticipated. She still felt a little out of it, so it was tough to pay attention to anything else. She rolled her head next to her, where Weiss was sitting on a chair and nodding her head in time to what the doctor was saying.

It was the groggiest she'd ever felt in her life. She wanted to fall asleep, but then a dull pressure would close around her hand, reminding her that she had company.

She didn't know how long she'd been in hospital, nor how long since her mission had gone sideways. She had fallen complacent in her experience, and failed to execute procedure to the necessary standard. A mistake borne of laziness. And, according to the droning of the doctor, a mistake which had almost cost her life.

Weiss was clearly paying more attention to the doctor, so Blake let herself tune his words out. When he left, she asked, "Did he say anything important?"

Weiss raised her eyebrows.

"You weren't paying attention?"

"Look at me, Weiss," she slurred. "Do I look like I should even be awake right now?"

"No, that's fair enough … how do you feel?"

"You know how I feel."

"Mm." Weiss sighed. Then she shook her head. "You can't go back to Hunting, Blake. Not after this. I'm … I can't let you do it."

Blake said nothing. She was trying her best to process what Weiss was saying. It was disheartening.

"You said it yourself: I've been where you are right now. In fact, your injuries are even worse than mine. And the doctor said that it's going to be hard for you to even recover, let alone go back to the high-intensity of Hunting. Are you listening?"

"Yeah … yeah, I am," she said quietly.

Weiss gripped Blake's hand, hard enough to make her wince. "Blake, I'm serious about this. This life was never sustainable. We used to talk about growing old together. And it's not like this is the first time I've said these things to you, either. I'm not going to lose you out there, you hear me?"

Blake met her eyes, and nodded. Weiss relaxed.

"Sorry. That was rough of me."

"S'fine."

"Do you want to be alone?" Weiss said. She sounded a little apologetic.

"No, no … stay." She patted Weiss's arm. "I'll just sleep."

Weiss smiled. "Okay."

"Okay."

"Blake?"

"Mm?"

"I'm sorry … I don't want to order you to do anything. Whatever decisions we make, I want them to be mutual. You know that, right?"

Blake nodded, her mouth feeling dry.

"I just … I don't want to lose you. After all this time, I have to put that out there. I worried about you every time you left. I tried to tell myself that you would be just fine, ran the odds of survival in my head. You always had good odds …" Weiss smiled wistfully. "And even now, you've survived. You're here, even if you look like crap."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome … Look, just get some sleep. I'll be here. And we can talk about this when later anyway. I know you must be feeling like your head's stuffed with cotton."

"Mm … she knows me so well."

Weiss leant over and kissed her.

"Get some sleep, love."

Blake found it rather easy to do as instructed.

 


	9. Track 9: Flaws

**Track 9: Flaws**

__**You / have always worn / your flaws upon your sleeve  
And I / have always buried them / deep beneath the ground  
Dig them up / let's finish what we started  
Dig them up / so nothing's left untouched**

* * *

 

The front door slammed shut, a noise not unlike a crack or a bang. It shook the walls of the apartment, a low rattle. It wasn't anything new, so Weiss was not overly disturbed by the noise. She waited for one minute – which she knew from experience was enough time – and crept over to the door that had just been slammed. She got close, pressed her ear against the wood, just to confirm what she already knew was happening. She knew that Blake was pacing outside her door, and she knew that Blake was on her cell phone, calling someone – probably a mutual friend – asking for a place to stay for the night.

Sure enough, she heard the footsteps, the back-and-forth rhythm. She heard the frantic, whisper-hiss speech as Blake begged the unfortunate victim for their couch and shower.

"Get out of here!" Weiss yelled through the door. Immediately the pacing and dialogue stopped. "Just get out of here, Blake!"

"Fuck you!"

Then more steps. Weiss flung the door open. She saw Blake hurrying down the staircase, hair flying, her jacket half-on and half-off.

"What was that?!" Weiss asked, even though she'd heard perfectly. Someone in the next zip code would have heard perfectly.

"FUCK YOU!"

A symbolic gesture was made with one finger, and then Blake was gone.

Weiss shook her head, and went back inside the apartment. She was more careful with the door, but it still sounded like it might be loud for the uninitiated.

 _Well then,_ she thought, _good thing everyone in this building is initiated._

She looked around her apartment, at the mess they'd made. Two shattered mugs, spilled contents setting in her carpet – she'd have to get the stains steamed out –; an overturned chair; couch cushions on the floor; a broken plate – thankfully clean.

She set the chair upright and tossed the cushions back onto the couch. The shards of the plate and mugs she was forced to pick up by hand and dispose of in the garbage.

It had been their third fight in four weeks. But it wasn't like the other two, which had seemed like they were about significant problems and then turned out to be just the opposite. It was important, she felt, even though she couldn't exactly remember it. But if it had cost 30 minutes of her time, then there was no way it couldn't have been.

None of this was new to her, to either of them. Did other couples fight as much as they did? Not any that she knew.

But Blake would be back. The separation wouldn't take long; it rarely did. Usually a day, sometimes a little more, but she would come back sooner or later, and things would be okay again.

Her friends pitied her. They didn't hide the fact that they thought she was ruining her life. They judged her, and they judged Blake. They would say that there were others, who would "treat her right". Sometimes she even wondered if her straight friends thought a man would be good for her. The idea made her want to gag.

Their advice was useless, and she had long since stopped asking for it. She knew what she wanted, and what she wanted had black hair and golden eyes and wore horrible sweaters. What she wanted liked to debate philosophy and read and cuddle under a tree in the afternoon sun.

How unfortunate that what she wanted also liked to antagonize her so. _Belladonna._ It was there in her surname.

* * *

 

Blake kept her head down, to both shield her raw eyes from the wind and to pre-empt any sympathetic or strange looks from passersby. She rubbed her sweater sleeve over her face and sniffed.

The 3.13 p.m. bus pulled up to the stop she was sitting at. She watched the exchange of passengers and watched as the bus left without her. She had no plans, nowhere to really go.

The message on her cell phone filled her relief. Asking a mutual friend to stay in her usually-empty apartment was embarrassing, but familiar. Eleven days ago, when last she fought with Weiss, she stayed with Pyrrha. The week before that with Yang. She didn't want to impose on Pyrrha again, and Yang's incessant questions made her uncomfortable; It seemed that her relationship was something of a sideshow attraction. She understood why, of course, but she hated feeling like a freak just because the situation with Weiss wasn't exactly ideal.

This time the S.O.S. was going out to Ruby, a friend who didn't ask questions, who told her she didn't have to explain anything. She was rarely in town, as a consequence of her work, and her apartment was lived-in for only a small portion of the year. Blake had her blessing to make herself at home, and for as long as she needed to stay. Overly generous and exceedingly kind of her, but Blake was going to make sure that she didn't disturb the place too much.

She didn't know when she was going to go back to Weiss. Or even if.

A scowl formed on her face.

It had been a ridiculous fight, over the brand of food they were feeding the cat, or something equally trivial. She tended to forget the details of their fights, like an immediate purge. It was something that she knew she had in common with Weiss, at least, because there was admittedly not much else.

She messaged Ruby, thanking her for the generosity. Ruby immediately replied, telling her not to worry about it, and where to find the spare key. Blake thanked her again, and boarded the 3.22 bus as soon as it pulled up.

* * *

 

The recording of Blake's voice telling her to leave a message played for the seventh time. After being in this relationship for fifteen months, Weiss was confident enough in her rote memorization skills to believe that she could recite it verbatim.

"Blake, _please._ I don't want to talk to your mailbox all night. The least you could do is text, let me know where you are."

She hung up and tossed the cell phone on the couch. It was approaching the usual dinner time, and she'd heard nothing from Blake since … earlier. The silence didn't worry her so much as it annoyed her, because it made her feel like she was being punished, either deliberately or unknowingly.

The microwave oven beeped; her boxed-meal was "ready". She pulled off the plastic film and turned her nose up at the so-called pasta – even after a year of the questionable food, she was no more enamored of it than when she was first including it in her meal plans.

If it wasn't for her parents, family even, then she would never have had to entertain the idea of "budget foods". She would never have had to find an apartment and move in to it with Blake. Disownment, however, had proven to be an insurmountable hurdle. Being stripped of access to her accounts, her stake in the family business, as well as her place in the family proper had rendered her essentially powerless. There had barely been time to pack a bag, but at least she made sure she didn't forget the money she'd managed to hide away, "just in case".

The experience of coming out, and everything that had happened in the twelve months since, had taught her one valuable lesson: anything that can go wrong _will_ go wrong. Looking back on the entire fifteen months of their relationship, she only wished that she'd thought about cost-benefit.

And perhaps it was wrong to look at her entire relationship with Blake from an analytical standpoint. There had been good times, as most couples naturally experienced. Becoming "one of the people" was much easier to bear with somebody close to lean on, and Blake's arm had made for a sturdy balustrade. Very often after the "coming out" event, she would just lay with Blake. She wouldn't say anything.

Blake would sometimes ask what was on her mind, but she preferred not to go through the baggage. Why bother? she thought. It would just lead to an unproductive conversation that only interested one participant. And she knew that this was an irritating attitude for her partner to put up with. Sometimes she pushed it, just to see how much she could get away with.

Blake was an inquisitive soul, and it was something that she had never expected in the relationship. When they'd met, Weiss's initial impression was of a bookish, relaxed woman who didn't let anything bother her for too long. Of course, there was much more to a person than initial impressions, but it had still surprised her, the extent to which Blake always wanted to invest in her life. Could she be faulted for that? For caring too much?

Sometimes, when she was younger, Weiss had pretended to have all the answers. But after fifteen months of a relationship with this whole other being, she could pretend no longer.

* * *

 

Ruby's apartment felt more like a hotel room. Small. Sterile. Signs of previous habitation all but eradicated, despite Blake's knowledge that it had indeed been lived in at some stage.

She sat down, at a loss for what to do next. She could eat. But she doubted Ruby kept perishables, and she wasn't much in the mood to cook or prepare anything. On the other hand, she also didn't want to go out, so she was suddenly presented with a self-imposed impasse.

Then she yawned, and realized just how much the day's events had wearied her. Though it was barely past 6.00 p.m., she went to the master bedroom and climbed into Ruby's bed. She was already missing Weiss, but she relished the idea of sleeping in a bed that didn't feel like a time-bomb. Thinking about the heavy lifting could wait until the morning.

* * *

 

It felt ridiculous, trying to boil the relationship down to a listable format. Bullet-pointing, like she was compiling a list of pros and cons. Was she preparing notes for a speech?

But, as ridiculous as it made her feel, Blake believed it was necessary. Despite her active ignorance of the text messages and missed calls, she was planning to go back to the apartment the next day.

Only this time couldn't be like all the others. They couldn't just "make up" and sweep it all away again. Something fundamental needed desperately to change, for fear that the future of the relationship would be drastically shortened. It went without saying that she didn't want that to eventuate.

So arose the need to evaluate.

Every so often she would pause, and read back what she had just written. Points like _we need to talk more_ felt silly enough to make her want to put lines through them. But she also knew what she meant, that what she was jotting down was a simplified summary. It wasn't intended for eyes other than her own.

In any case, the subject matter was taking care of itself. What she also needed was an approach.

Of course she would knock on the door at some odd hour, during what Weiss called the annoying hours of the morning.

She set the papers aside in favor of breakfast, with ingredients purchased from a nearby convenience store. In between bites of egg she wondered what Weiss was doing, what she would likely be doing later on that day. She wondered if it was too much to hope that Weiss was thinking along the same lines. And then if to prejudge her girlfriend was unnecessarily harsh.

Perhaps so. Or perhaps it was a thread of wondering better suited for dinner entirely.

* * *

 

She didn't want to think about how eerily familiar it all was – a soft knock on the apartment door during the annoying hours of the morning.

Had she been expecting it? Counting down the minutes during a sleepless night?

She shuffled out and swung the front door open without bothering to ask who was there or even to look through the peephole.

Blake was right on time, after all. Weiss smiled, despite herself.

"Hello," she said.

"Hi."

"How are you?"

Blake gave her an odd look.

"I've been gone for a day and a half."

"I know, but it's not like you were keeping me updated."

"Fair enough. I'm sorry I kept you in the dark. Did you worry?"

"Of course I worried. Where did you end up?"

"Ruby's."

Weiss raised an eyebrow.

"She's home?"

"No, not for another month. She told me where to find the spare key."

 _Ah._ "Go on, sit," Weiss said. "This is your apartment as well. Do you want something to eat?"

"I'm fine."

"Okay." Weiss crossed her arms. "What did you get up to?"

"A lot of thinking."

"I'm guessing it was about us."

"That's right." Blake stared at her, as if in examination.

Weiss wasn't yet sure what to feel. Her girlfriend seemed calm to the point of a measured coolness, which she could maybe see as a reason to worry. Her smile, lukewarm as it was, faltered.

"Are … Do you want us to break up? Because … I don't, you know. I was thinking about us as well-"

Blake held up a hand, keeping her from saying anything further.

"I don't want to break up either. But … we can't keep going like this."

Weiss tapped her foot, and then sat just within Blake's reach.

"I know."

"We're not getting mad about this trivial B.S. It goes way deeper than just the insults and the screaming at each other. I feel like I'm always having to dig up what you're really thinking, or what you're really feeling. It's … exhausting. And it's not all you, I know. I have problems as well, and I know what they are. We both make sure of that. But you … you just keep things hidden away, all the time."

"I know."

"When was the last time we had a _real_ conversation? A mutual dialogue?"

"I'm guessing a long time."

"Weiss." Blake's tone was stern.

"I know what you're saying, okay? But you know it's not easy for me."

"Yes, I do know." Blake fell back onto the couch with a sigh. "You don't like to talk about those things. But Weiss, if we don't have an open understanding, all the stuff we can't talk about will just come back one day and bury us." She hunched her shoulders and looked up at Weiss. "Do you like being a brick wall? Because I don't. And I don't like talking to one."

"You didn't even let me know where you ran off to the other day."

"I thought we were clear that that was different. I was mad, and hurt, and tired. Hey, I just want to be part of your life. We live together, after all. And would you have ever come out if you hadn't been with me back then? You can't just pretend that I don't know you."

Weiss slumped against the couch, her posture losing its usual rigidity.

"What should I do?"

The weight on the couch shifted as an arm made its way round her shoulders. A brace, rather than the balustrade she was used to.

"I think you mean, 'What should _we_ do?' I have my problems too; we're in this thing together."

"You aren't afraid of your problems, though. You fuck up, and you wear them, because you don't care. And you're right; I bury mine, because I hate those memories. Is that wrong?"

"That's not for me to say; as far as we're concerned … _us_ … we just need to find a balance somehow."

"Okay. How, Belladonna?"

Weiss heard a slight groan from Blake.

"That's a _very_ good question, Schnee."

They sat in silence. When Weiss looked up, Blake looked thoughtful, like she was biting the inner wall of her cheek.

"Do you have an answer to my very good question or not?"

"That's another good question."

 


End file.
